


Words Not Voiced, a Prayer

by Suzelle



Series: Blades and Bucklers [6]
Category: Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Bisexual Cassandra Pentaghast, Cassandra Pentaghast's Disgusted Noises, Dalish Issues, Dorian Pavus is a Good Friend, Established Relationship, F/F, Hurt/Comfort, Inquisitor & Dorian Pavus Friendship, Minor The Iron Bull/Dorian Pavus, Useless Lesbians, Warrior Lavellan - Freeform, gapfillers, sword girlfriends, wound care
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-14
Updated: 2020-09-14
Packaged: 2021-03-06 22:41:13
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 24,679
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26426539
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Suzelle/pseuds/Suzelle
Summary: Neither of them knew what they were doing at first.Well, that was not entirely true. They mastered sex almost immediately, which was no small thing. But Cassandra never slept in Shohreh’s bed afterward, retreating to her quarters at the end of most nights, and Shohreh had little desire to protest. They talked of everything but where things stood between them, and each time she disappeared down the stairwell, Shohreh felt somewhat lacking in comparison the grand, sweeping gestures of romance Cassandra revered in Varric’s tales.Cassandra and Lavellan guide each other along the Inquisition's path.
Relationships: Female Inquisitor/Cassandra Pentaghast, Female Lavellan/Cassandra Pentaghast, Iron Bull/Dorian Pavus
Series: Blades and Bucklers [6]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1914196
Comments: 6
Kudos: 38





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I intended this to be a short series of Cassandra/Lavellan scenes, but it quickly spiraled into a novella covering the back third of the game, delving more into Lavellan's past and featuring moments with the rest of the inner circle. Oops? The romance is still a strong thread throughout. If all goes according to plan, chapters will be posted every few days!
> 
> My thanks, as always, to Salvage for the beta read and for everything else. Once again, this features Shohreh Lavellan, disaster warrior.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Cassandra and Lavellan's relationship slowly takes shape as Lavellan prepares for the ball at Halamshiral.

Neither of them knew what they were doing at first.

Well, that was not entirely true. They mastered sex almost immediately, which was no small thing. Cassandra claimed to have never taken a woman to bed, but Shohreh would never have believed it for all the different ways she rendered her Inquisitor utterly undone. But Cassandra never slept in Shohreh’s bed afterward, retreating to her quarters at the end of most nights, and Shohreh had little desire to protest. In public they acted no different—certainly warmer than they’d been the past few weeks, but no more so than before their fight at Adamant. In Shohreh’s quarters, they talked of everything but where things stood between them, and each time Cassandra disappeared down the stairwell, Shohreh felt somewhat lacking in comparison the grand, sweeping gestures of romance Cassandra revered in Varric’s tales.

Still, she could not deny a buoyancy that lifted her spirits, her heart lightened in a way she had not known since before the Conclave—gods, since before Mithran. Inquisition business continued as ever, but somehow, one afternoon Shohreh found herself staring down a cleared schedule with no responsibilities. Sunlight shone down upon the courtyard, and as she considered what best way to loll about in sloth she found herself drawn toward the customs of her youth, when spring wound its way through the Marches and the halla had their fawns. Though the mountains remained by and large a frozen wasteland, wildflowers had begun to crop up in corners of Skyhold, and she brought Cole down to where a patch of aster grew just beyond the stables. 

“Why are we doing this?” Cole asked as Shohreh led her roan Charger out from her stall. The boy held a wildflower carefully between his fingers, it as if it might grow fangs and attack at any moment.

“Because it is springtime, and among my people we carve the antlers of the halla to honor them.” Shohreh took Cole’s hands and spun him around in a brief circle. “Braiding flowers into Ava’s mane serves much the same purpose.”

He nodded slowly, though still looked a bit skeptical. He walked up to Ava, his hand held out tentatively, and Shohreh smiled when the horse ducked her head to take the carrot that lay there. 

“She likes it,” he announced. “It smells nice.”

“Well then,” Shohreh said with a smile. “No time to waste, is there?” 

They braided together in silence, the sun warming the back of Shohreh’s neck, and she murmured loving words in Elvhen to the steady charger. She still was less than confident in the saddle, and grateful they’d known to supply her with a gentle soul. 

“Your pain is softer,” Cole said, and Shohreh glanced at him, her brows furrowing in concern. He looked unbothered, his eyes not leaving his hands. “It only whispers now.” 

“That’s…good, I take it,” Shohreh said uncertainly. Cole did not unsettle her the way he did so many in the Inquisition, but that did not mean she understood him any better. “Do you think it’s the spirit diminishing within you?”

“No. No, I think it’s you,” Cole said. “Just last week I could hear you downstairs in the tavern, louder than anyone. The mark, burning, too much to lose if I fail, so alone now, why can’t she see me—”

“Cole.” Shohreh’s voice grew tight. His cheeks reddened slightly—could he do that before?—and he turned to look at her, earnest eyes shining behind straggly blond hair. She pushed his bangs back from his face, and he gave her a rare, somewhat apologetic smile before he turned his attention back to the flowers.

“Anyway, it’s softer now. Did Cassandra do that?”

Shohreh smiled in turn, a soft laugh escaping her. “Yes. Yes, I suppose she did.” 

They moved on to flower crowns after finishing with the horses, Shohreh teaching Cole how to weave the different flowers together. With her assistance, he made one large enough to fit over the top of his wide-brimmed hat, which drew out the first laugh she’d ever heard from him and a wistful smile from Blackwall, who watched them silently from the shadows. She began working on her own crown as the shadows lengthened in the grass, picking a daisy to weave in with the aster and coneflower.

“Sera told me this was where I’d find you.” A familiar voice sounded above them, and Shohreh turned to see Cassandra standing above them with her arms folded, expression torn halfway between amusement and exasperation. “I was quite certain it was simply one of her tricks.”

“No trick,” Shohreh said with a smile. “Cole here needs to learn the more playful aspects of humanity.”

But Cole stood up, brushing bits of stems and grass off his trousers. “I should be going. Thank you, Shohreh. I don’t wish to frighten the Seeker any further.” 

“I am not—!” Cassandra sputtered indignantly, but Cole darted off before she could react any further. She made a disgusted noise, blowing her lips out in frustration before she turned to Shohreh.

“I do not understand how you deal with him,” she said. “I’m still not entirely certain he’s not a demon.”

Shohreh’s heart clenched tight. She could not explain how he reminded her of a younger Mithran, with his doe eyes and gentle way about the world. The shy, terrified boy of her childhood had grown into a self-assured hunter, wiser than any of her friends, and she could not help but hope the same for Cole. “He’s just lost. I do what I can so he might find his way.” 

Cassandra shook her head and sighed. “You have patience. Something I always seem to lack.”

“Not that much patience,” Shohreh said dryly. Now that her memories of the Conclave had returned, she was quite certain that if she hadn’t been gripped by sheer impatience and boredom, she would not be Inquisitor today.

Cassandra appeared somewhat mollified, and she gestured down toward Shohreh’s lap. “What is that?” 

“Oh.” Shohreh looked down at her flower crown, examined it for good measure, and silently declared it good enough. She stood so that she faced Cassandra, the sight of her skeptical face enough to make her grin so broadly her cheeks hurt. 

“It’s for you.” She held it aloft. “A token of my affection for the fairest lady in all Orlais.”

Cassandra snorted. “And what am I supposed to do with it? Place it in a glass to stare at?”

“No, you wear it. Here.” Shohreh lifted up the crown, Cassandra ducking her head down only when she realized what she meant to do. She arranged it so that it fit perfectly over the braid that encircled her cropped hair, and stepped back when Cassandra raised her head, the pink and blue flowers fitting perfectly with her Seeker’s armor. Cassandra lifted a hand to gently touch the crown, her cheeks flushed a deep red, and Shohreh’s smile widened.

“Perfect,” she said. “You look beautiful.”

Cassandra’s blush deepened, and she shook her head. “I am sure I look ridiculous. As you are, I hope you know.” 

“You look beautiful,” Shohreh insisted, and she brushed her fingers along Cassandra’s forehead. “A queen among knights.”

This time, Cassandra could not keep the smile from her face, and she took Shohreh’s hands between her own.

“I have to go see Leliana tonight,” she said. “Chantry matters, otherwise I’d invite you along. And, well…”

“Of course.” Shohreh squeezed Cassandra’s hands, wished she could brush her lips upon her bruised knuckles, but she did not know who watched them from the stables. “I’ll see you at the training grounds tomorrow, then?”

“Count on it.” Uncertainty stole along Cassandra’s face, her eyes darting back and forth over Shohreh’s shoulder. She glanced behind her toward the stables, Master Dennet nowhere to be seen, and kissed Shohreh swiftly on the cheek before she strode quickly towards the tower.

***

The next day promised an unusually long war council; the date for the Halamshiral ball was set, and Josephine spent the better part of the morning drilling Shohreh in the more delicate aspects of the Game. She could keep up if she did not think about it too deeply; the double meanings and backstabbing were horribly similar to navigating the close-knit politics of Clan Lavellan. But she still stumbled when Leliana or Cullen lobbed her an unexpected question about the civil war, and by the end Josephine looked ready to hurl her clipboard across the room.

“Well, it’s progress, I suppose,” Josephine muttered when they adjourned for the morning. “Dance practice this evening, my lady?”

“I look forward to it.” Shohreh couldn’t decide if she was lying or not. She filed out of the room behind Cullen and Josephine, but stopped when a gloved hand rested on her arm.

“Inquisitor? Might I have a word?” She turned to see Leliana standing beside her, her hood cast back so that the midday sun lightened her red hair. 

“Of course,” Shohreh said, suddenly uneasy. “Is this about your scouts in Wycome?”

“No, no word yet. This has nothing to do with the Inquisition—well, I suppose it does, after a fashion.”

“Oh?”

Leliana did not answer. Instead, she walked slowly around the wartable until she reached one of the stained-glass windows behind it, leaning against the wall as she stared outside. Shohreh stood uncomfortably, worried she had somehow done something wrong. They had clashed more than once, Shohreh standing firm each time Leliana veered more towards ruthlessness than idealism, but she was still Shohreh’s favorite among her advisors, her brilliance and compassion combining to make her nearly as admirable as Cassandra in Shohreh’s eyes. The mischievous streak that occasionally shone through made Shohreh wish they could be friends, if only the Nightingale did not also utterly terrify her.

“You continue to surprise me, Lady Lavellan. If anyone was to capture Cassandra’s heart, I did not expect it to be you.”

Shohreh choked on air. She coughed hastily to try and mask it, but Leliana did not take her eyes off the tree out the window. “I’m sorry, I don’t—”

Leliana turned to her and laughed. “Do not try to deny it. I watched you two by the stables yesterday, and she turned red as a Chantry robe when I asked her last night. You would think I’d never caught her reading those romance serials.”

“That’s sort of how this all started, really.” Shohreh’s face grew hot, the mark on her hand flaring with pain in the way it sometimes did under extreme stress. Dorian had overheard a truly frightening conversation between Leliana and Blackwall regarding the Warden’s affections for Josephine, one that was apparently enough to put him off any pursuit. This had initially pleased Shohreh—she liked Blackwall, but Josephine was far too good for him—but she had not considered the possibility of staring down that knife’s edge herself.

Leliana gave her a warm smile. “Do not worry, Inquisitor, I am not here to interrogate you. If anything, I am glad. Cassandra is my friend, and it has been a long time since she’s opened herself to—well, to anyone.”

Shohreh breathed a quiet sigh of relief. “I hope that I prove worthy of her.”

“You have led the cause she abandoned her life for, better than any of us could have hoped,” Leliana said. “I do not think you should worry about appearing ‘worthy.’”

Shohreh tilted her head in acknowledgement, sensing that her spymaster had more to say. Leliana remained silent for a time, as if weighing her words, before she walked back to the war table, her hand tracing over the top of a skull that held a corner of the map down.

“You know what happened to Cassandra’s brother, yes?”

“He was killed by mages,” Shohreh said. “She told me.” 

Leliana nodded. “She has given her heart only once before, at least as far as I know. It is hard for her, I think, when she survived such losses so young. Maker, it took years of us working together before we became true friends. My doing as much as hers, but…” 

She trailed off, her calculating gaze never leaving Shohreh’s.

“You are careful, Inquisitor, until you are not. You watch, you listen, you step delicately, and then you burst forth with such recklessness we all fear it will be your last march. Your instincts have always been right, and so we have let it pass, but here—I would ask you to temper yourself, if you are to continue this. Cassandra has had enough people torn from her side.”

Shohreh’s breath caught in her throat. It was as honest an assessment as anything she’d ever gotten since joining the Inquisition.

“I will,” she said, her head bowed. “I swear it.” 

“Then we have nothing to stand between us.” Leliana broke into another smile, one that made her look years younger. “Except perhaps plans for another dinner, this time with you both? The poor dear is wholly unprepared to deal with the gossip that will spring up around this.”

“I’d like that very much.”

***

“I am going,” Shohreh muttered through clenched teeth, “to kill you all.”

For gods knew what reason, Josephine insisted on having dance practice in the main hall of Skyhold. Most people passing through the hall had the good sense to act as though their Inquisitor was not there, but Vivenne, Dorian, Varric, and the Bull all stood behind Josephine, eyeing her critically. 

“Hyperbole is unbecoming, my dear,” Vivienne said briskly. “Focus yourself on the task at hand.”

“I’m not being hyperbolic,” Shohreh said, wishing fiercely she’d brought her sword with her. “The last thing I need is critique by committee.”

“Hundreds of nobles will have their eyes on you at Halamshiral.” Vivienne held her staff before her as if she might prod Shohreh in the legs if she stepped out of line. “If you crumble in front of a mere five, we may as well assassinate Celene ourselves.”

 _Now who’s being hyperbolic_ , Shohreh thought mutinously, but she had the good sense to keep her mouth shut, giving a short nod instead. The irony was, she truly enjoyed dancing under the proper circumstances; all hunters in Clan Lavellan participated in ritual dances to honor the gods. But fancy Orlesian waltzes were nothing like the ethereal movements of the Dalish, all done either solo or in large groups, and she could not tell if she had more difficulty leading or following.

“Let us see what you remember of the Dance of Six Candles.” Josephine stepped forward, her hand extended. “I believe we should focus exclusively on you leading. You are the Inquisitor, after all.”

Shohreh suppressed another grimace. “By your leave, Lady Montelyet.” She took Josephine’s hand and bowed to kiss it gently. Her silk skirts rustled as Shohreh placed a hand around her waist and they stepped back. _One-two-three one-two-three, step, shuffle, turn—_

“Excellent,” Josephine said at the conclusion. “The Reel of the Empress, next.”

This one was far more complex and involved changing partners; Varric and Vivienne lined up beside them wordlessly, Varric appearing unexpectedly dignified before the First Enchanter.

“How do _you_ know this one?” she asked.

“Lost a bet with Hawke,” he said with a wink. “Turned out to be surprisingly good research for _Swords and Shields_.” 

“Lovely,” Shohreh sighed, and took Josephine’s hand once more. She started well enough, the beginning cemented in her memory, but when the time came to change partners she stepped left instead of right. Josephine flitted away from her and she stopped, utterly lost once more, before she slammed into Varric when she tried to turn around. “ _Fenedhis_ , Andraste’s fucking tits—” 

“Really, darling,” Vivienne said, her voice sharp. Dorian and Bull both snorted, Dorian hiding a smug grin behind his hand, and Shohreh rounded on them both. 

“Oh, you could do better?”

Dorian and Bull exchanged a glance, and Shohreh’s eyes narrowed in suspicion. Though she’d won her bet with Dorian she had expected him to act on things with the Iron Bull sooner rather than later, but as far as she knew they’d remained out of each other’s beds. She wished she had not taken Dorian with them to the Storm Coast; she had a suspicion his harsh words toward Gatt and the Qun had chilled things with the Bull.

But she could not parse whatever passed between their gaze, and the Iron Bull stepped forward on his own, his hand extended to Vivienne. “If I may, Madame De Fer?”

“Of course, dear.” Vivienne tilted her head graciously, and Dorian stepped forward to take Shohreh’s hand with a wink. She heaved another great sigh and placed her hand around his waist, and Josephine counted out for them to begin again.

If she faltered this time, it was only because Dorian could not keep his eyes off the Bull’s graceful moves alongside Vivienne; she had to lead them across the floor with absolutely no help from the Tevinter mage. She mastered the pass between partners with little trouble, taking Vivienne’s elegant hand in her own while Dorian practically leapt into the Iron Bull’s arms.

“Very good. Lose some of that stiffness, darling,” Vivienne instructed as they moved. “You would not wield a sword with shoulders so tense.”

Shohreh gave a self-deprecating little laugh and forced her muscles to relax, realizing she’d gone through half a dozen steps without needing to think about it. They switched partners twice more before the dance came to an end, and she bowed low to Vivienne, who eyed her with what might have been approval. She looked around for Josephine, who gave a tiny nod in relief and satisfaction, and turned to see that Iron Bull and Dorian still danced, seemingly oblivious to the world around them. Shohreh stepped forward, but a hand on her shoulder stopped her.

“Let us leave them to it.” An almost wistful smile played on Vivienne’s face. “You are ready as you’ll ever be, my dear, so long as you can keep blasphemies off your tongue. Just remember to calculate your charms.”

“I always do,” Shohreh shot a cheeky smile back in Vivienne’s direction and darted towards Varric before she could incur any disapproval. She watched the Bull and Dorian sweep across the floor, now having devolved into something much wilder and decidedly not Orlesian, and laughed when Bull lifted Dorian clean off his feet, spinning him around once before setting him back on the ground.

As she watched, Shohreh glanced over to their right and saw that Cassandra stood at the entrance to the undercroft, leaning against the arched doorway. She made no move to join their rambunctious crew, but a smile tugged at her stern features, her eyes light as she watched them.

“She’s scowling a lot less these days,” Varric muttered to her with a sly grin. “Your doing, Big Guy?”

She returned a coy little smile that would have made Vivienne proud. “I’ll let you figure that one out yourself.”

“Who’d have thought. Next thing I know, you’re going to pull her over here and she’ll have even smoother moves than Tiny.”

Shohreh chuckled and shook her head. She considered going over to Cassandra, wanting nothing but to pull her into the fray and demand a dance herself, but something held her back, a voice telling her that if she did whatever spell held over them all would break. Cassandra would join when she was ready.

***

Halamshiral exhausted her, a hard knot of fear and tension that tightened every time she spoke or moved among the courtiers, still half convinced she would stick her foot in her mouth and ruin everything. Thank the Creators she’d become immune to the gawping and whispers about her Dalish bearing, for it could have tipped her over the edge as she waltzed atop the ruins of her people. By some miracle, she charmed the entire court, keenly aware thanks to Josephine of how her natural wit fed into the Great Game. She wielded her beauty sharper than any blade, and the gamble of all her snooping paid off, Briala and Celene reunited with Gaspard on the outs. The discovery of the vault stood as a greater miracle than all her deeds beforehand, but it did little good now to question what would have happened otherwise. 

She stayed out on the balcony after Morrigan left her, the fresh air a bracing welcome against her face. Her fine clothes were completely soaked through with nervous sweat, her body still trembling from her confrontation with Florianne, and her left hand burned with pain from her work on the courtyard rift. The Anchor had been…tetchy, since Adamant, she could think of no other way to describe it. It flared brighter, and there were times where she feared she could see the Fade itself when she closed a rift, the mark threatening to pitch her back into that nightmare. It began to throb at other times too, when she was especially exhausted or under great stress, and she suspected even if they hadn’t confronted a rift tonight it would pain her all the same.

She stared down at her left palm, the green glow now faintly visible through the satin of her glove. Carefully she pulled it off, wincing as the fabric pulled over the raw mark, and dread settled on her chest when she saw the way the Anchor pulsed and twisted on her shaking hand, digging into her bones and spreading out in tendrils beneath her skin. It looked like an infection she’d once seen Enaya treat, for a hunter who’d been clawed by a wyvren. They’d had to take the arm eventually, his face twisted in unbearable pain…

“I can’t believe you managed to escape before me. A count insisted on talking about soup for fifteen minutes.”

Shohreh hastily stuffed her hand back inside her glove, biting her lip against the pain, and turned to see that Cassandra stood at the threshold. If she noticed Shohreh’s distress she gave no sign, looking more put-upon than she had all night. She joined Shohreh at the balcony, resting her forearms on the marble.

“We can return to Skyhold whenever you like. The sooner the better.”

Shohreh hummed in acknowledgement, her thoughts still in half a dozen different places. The more cynical part of her expected a lecture from Cassandra, with her favored Gaspard on the execution block and the Empire in the hands of Celene and her Elven lover. How many times had they disagreed on the Inquisition’s direction, before they had…

“Is something wrong?” 

Shohreh sighed. “I’m just worn out. Tonight has been…very long.”

“It was a lot of foolishness,” Cassandra said, tugging a smile out of Shohreh. “But we did strike a blow against Corypheus.” 

“You don’t disapprove?” Shohreh asked in surprise. “What about Gaspard?”

“Gaspard revealed his own treachery tonight.” Cassandra’s lip curled in disgust. “Such a man is not fit to rule Orlais. And you…you did well, in finding that locket. Reuniting Celene and Briala. Their love will make the Empire stronger.”

Shohreh stared at her in mild disbelief, before she let out a low chuckle, pleased beyond measure. “Cassandra Pentaghast. Still a romantic at heart, even in matters of politics.”

Cassandra blushed, shooting her a baleful glance. “Not a word to anyone. I do have a reputation to maintain, you know.”

“I wouldn’t dream of sullying it.” Shohreh patted her in reassurance on the arm before she stared back out at the still ponds and mountains that surrounded the Winter Palace. The throbbing in her hand subsided to a faint pulse, and she thanked the Creators for small blessings. “There will still be trouble ahead, no matter who sits on the throne.”

Cassandra nodded. “We will need to put the soldiers at Skyhold on alert. Better to be safe.”

She turned to go back inside, and Shohreh balked, sensing her one opportunity might be slipping away before her eyes. “Wait. There is one thing we must do before we go.”

She stepped back from the balcony, extending her arm out as she had done so many times that night. “May I have this dance, Lady Cassandra?”

“A _dance_?” she asked in disbelief. “After all we’ve been through tonight?”

“Can you think of a better way to celebrate?” Shohreh shot her best mischievous glance at Cassandra, and was rewarded with that soft, faint smile that made Cassandra look purely happy. Shohreh let herself lead one last time, lost in the warm grey of Cassandra’s eyes, and they circled around the balcony, machinations and schemes melting away until it was just the two of them, their movement and their trust and all they’d given to each other.

“I suppose this isn’t….terrible.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My favorite thing about the entirety of Wicked Eyes, Wicked Hearts is that Cassandra is all "Gaspard rules Celene drools" and will disapprove almost every pro-Celene choice UNLESS you reunite her with Briala and then she Greatly Approves. AND BIOWARE THINKS SHE'S NOT A LESBIAN.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Anchor continues to plague Lavellan, Blackwall's truths are revealed, Cassandra tries to understand Elvhen politics.

She closed another half-dozen Fade Rifts on the journey home, because why not, and by the time they returned to Skyhold her hand burned almost constantly, a thousand needles digging between muscle and sinew. She took a draught of elfroot and rashvine to help her sleep at night but otherwise left it untreated, presuming there was nothing to be done but endure. Morrigan eyed her keenly but said nothing, and no one else seemed to notice anything different, attributing her foul mood to exhaustion. The Anchor miraculously shrunk on their journey through the eluvian, leaving her room to feel something other than pain for the first time in days, suffused with awe and fear at what Corypheus might accomplish. She presumed a return visit would be unwise, but she dreamed of it anytime the burning sensation became too much, placated by the knowledge it did not have to last forever.

Solas stopped her one morning when she cut through the rotunda to visit Dorian. “The Anchor has grown, has it not?”

“Good morning to you too,” Shohreh snapped. They had largely avoided each other since coming to Skyhold, her gratitude to him just barely evening out the terrible footing they’d been on in Haven. But his eyes held genuine concern now, and she let out an abashed sigh. “How did you know?”

“The pinched expression on your face every time you barrel through here. I’m surprised Cassandra hasn’t noticed.”

“She just thinks I’m imitating her.” Shohreh tried for a light smile, but Solas remained unimpressed. “It’s fine. It just…lingers longer, after a rift closes.”

“Let me see,” Solas said. Reluctantly, she pulled off the soft leather gloves she’d favored since her return, and he took her palm between his long, elegant fingers. The mark still spread in tendrils down her wrist, and he traced over the threads of green, fingers icy against her skin.

“I wonder if returning to the Fade did not destabilize it somehow. Though if that were the case, it would have flared long before this.”

“It seems to get worse when…when I’m upset.” Shohreh hated admitting the vulnerability. “Angry, or frightened.”

Solas sighed, his fingers falling from her hand. “Of course it does. It is a part of you now, subject to your wild nature as much as the rest of us.” 

Any fondness she might have extended toward him evaporated. “My what?”

Solas’s neutral expression faltered slightly. “I meant nothing by it. You warriors all have a bit of wildness to you; Cassandra, the Iron Bull…”

“You’re not talking about Cassandra or Bull, though,” she said slowly. “You’re talking about me. About the Dalish.”

“See, this is precisely what I mean,” Solas said with a touch of impatience. “Quick to offend, assuming the worst without stopping to consider my words. You care for truth even less than your people.”

Green flared behind her eyes as she clenched her fist instinctively, her ungloved nails digging straight into the Anchor. She swayed, her entire body seeming to constrict in on itself, lines of green tightening her lungs, pulling at her until she could barely breathe. She gasped sharply, and Solas stepped forward to catch her as she stumbled. She pulled away, but not before she caught the regret and sorrow on his face. 

“Da’len—”

“Don’t. Call me that.” 

She stalked up the spiral stairs before he had a chance to respond, anger rendering the mark so hot it spread up her arm. She collapsed into a chair in the library, her heart pounding, and clutched her right hand to the base of her throat in an attempt to calm herself.

Dorian poked his head over the top of the chair, peering down at her, and she stared up in despair. “Are you quite all right?”

“Solas,” she muttered.

“Ah. Say no more. Shall we go prance in the woods and bring back a halla to spite him, then?”

Her hand still burned, but she snorted in spite of herself. “I’d think your countrymen would have something to say about that.”

“For you, dear friend, I’d rebuke them all.”

***

The pain did not abate, but neither did it worsen, and Shohreh managed to more or less live with it. It helped that Inquisition business went largely quiet, or as quiet as it had been since they first reached Skyhold, and she spent several afternoons in the garden with Morrigan, listening quietly to her low, melodic voice. The dark-haired apostate fascinated Shohreh, her knowledge of Elven lore extensive enough to rival Solas’s, but without his infuriating condescension. Cassandra disapproved, of course, and Shohreh found it best to not argue when she voiced her objections during their training sessions. 

“I do not trust her,” Cassandra said darkly, bringing her sword up to strike at Shohreh. “She desires power, and that is dangerous.”

“I trust Leliana,” Shohreh answered. Sweat streamed down her face as she strained against Cassandra’s forward movement. Her hand still troubled her, and she gripped the sword tighter against the pain before she stepped right with a hanging parry to bring her blade back around. “She knew her before, and she gave me an honest enough assessment. She would not allow her to stay if she suspected treachery.” 

“There is letting her stay here, and there is becoming familiar,” Cassandra panted, blocking Shohreh’s strike with her shield. “I know this type of mage. She thrives on seduction, drawing you in until you’re too enthralled to notice your silver is missing.” 

“What—” A ridiculous thought occurred to her, and she stepped out of Cassandra’s measure, panting as she rested her hands on her thighs. “Cassandra, are you _jealous_?”

Cassandra scowled, but a faint blush spread across her cheeks. “I am not jealous. I only wish you would take more care around these apostates.”

“I’m plenty careful,” Shohreh snapped, Cassandra’s overbearing worry veering from adorable to infuriating, and she brought her blade back up to defend. “Have my instincts proven wrong, yet?”

“Your instincts are sharp enough. Except here,” Cassandra added, and cut low to smack Shohreh just above the knee. She growled wordlessly, a terse nod to acknowledge the hit, and brought her sword to a high guard, doing her best to ignore the dull throbbing as her palm curled around the hilt.

“Very funny. You don’t have to— _Ah!_ ” She dodged when Cassandra swung at her, but she moved too slowly, and Cassandra’s blunted steel blade struck Shohreh directly where her hands gripped her sword. Her gauntlets kept the blow from shattering her bones, but it threw her left hand into agony, the sensation of a thousand knives stabbing outward from her palm. It reverberated up her entire arm, and she collapsed to her knees, clutching at her wrist with her right hand.

“Shohreh?” Cassandra knelt beside her at once, her brows furrowed in concern. Her eyes widened when she saw bits of green light poking through the cracks of Shohreh’s left gauntlet, and Shohreh whimpered when Cassandra tried to remove it.

“Not here,” Shohreh bit out. The pain slowly, inexplicably spread through her whole body, her muscles weak and aching as if a fever gripped her. She clutched at Cassandra with her good hand. “Get me inside, quickly.”

Cassandra didn’t need telling twice. She grasped Shohreh’s right arm to help her to her feet, and the world spun around them as they walked back to the fortress. Everything seemed thrown into sudden, sharp relief, and Shohreh wondered if she could create her own rift with the raw power splitting open her palm, if casting the Anchor toward the sky would rid her of the torment. Her legs burned as she climbed the steps of the fortress, face flaming as they crossed the main hall. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Varric approach them, looking troubled.

“You okay, Big Guy?”

“Y’know, that name’s…not that ironic.” Shohreh couldn’t stop the words from leaving her, her speech slurred. “I’m good sized for an elf.”

“Get Solas,” Cassandra said. “Tell him to meet us in her quarters.”

“No!” Shohreh cried. She nearly fell to her knees again, the Anchor consuming her arm, surely it would sear her flesh from the inside out…

“Shohreh, your mark is poisoning you.” Dimly, she registered the fear in Cassandra’s voice. “Solas knows the magic, he healed you before—”

“Not Solas,” she said through clenched teeth. Her eyes filled with tears. “Get Dorian, Morrigan, Vivienne, I don’t care. Not him.”

“Don’t worry, Inquisitor,” Varric said, and he disappeared before she could say anything more. She stumbled beside Cassandra until they reached the door to her quarters, and she slumped against the wall in the stairwell, too dazed from the pain to do anything further. Cassandra lifted her up off the steps, the corded muscle in her arms rippling beneath Shohreh’s back and her legs, and carried her up the three flights of stairs to her quarters.

“If I’d known this would happen, I’d have collapsed ages ago,” she murmured. She did not know if Cassandra heard her and blinked at the bright light when they entered her quarters, the plush mattress impossibly soft when Cassandra set her down on the bed. She curled around herself, the mark crackling and twisting until the stabbing sensation overwhelmed her, and when another door banged open she slipped away into oblivion.

***

Sunlight warmed her face when she awoke, the gentle touch of late afternoon. Weariness weighed her down, but she felt more or less in one piece, and she slowly leveraged herself up to sit back against the several pillows propped up behind her. Dorian and Cassandra sat on the velvety white couch across from her bed, both looking like they’d been poisoned with red lyrium. Dorian noticed her stir first, and he swooped down on the bed with a cry of relief. He ran his hands along her face, thumb brushing across her cheekbone as if to confirm she was still solidly there.

“Sweet Shohreh, you are the most infuriating woman I’ve ever met. You _tell_ us when the giant death mark starts consuming you from the inside out.”

She reached up with her right hand to clasp his own, glancing down at her left, where the Anchor had faded to its usual, coin-sized resting state. She wiggled her fingers experimentally. They seemed to have lost all feeling entirely. “I didn’t want to worry you.”

Dorian scoffed. “Well, you failed miserably at that.”

“You fixed it, then?” she asked. “What did you do?”

“I did nothing. Varric brought me here, but my knowledge of Rift magic is child’s play, at best. Same as any mage here, including your new friend. It took Solas to sort out the problem.”

He tilted his head toward the eastern balcony, where Solas leaned against the doorway, watching them with his usual calculating expression. Shohreh could not stop a scowl from escaping her, threw Cassandra a betrayed look. “What—”

“He saved your life.” Dorian’s eyes held a shade of reproach, before he gestured for Solas to join them. “He’ll have to explain to you what precisely he did.”

Solas approached slowly, as if keenly aware of the tension that formed in Shohreh’s shoulders, and Dorian shifted so that he now sat closest to her on the bed. “If I may?”

Shohreh lifted her hand, still curiously numb, and Solas set it on his own palm, tracing around the Anchor with his other hand. He murmured something in Elvhen, the dialect too archaic for Shohreh to make out an exact translation, though she caught the words _gate_ and _barrier._

“It destabilized at Adamant, as I suspected, spreading in an attempt to link permanently with the Fade. A slow-growing poison, to be sure. I siphoned off the worst of it and established a door, for lack of a better term. It should only open when you approach a rift, and close when your work is done.”

She stared at her palm with some detachment, where the mark had faded to a dull, neat green. He’d claimed it to be a part of her, but she’d never felt less divorced from a part of her own body, magic welded to her that she could not control. She needed that control, as a fighter, as a person, and every time she thought she’d reconciled the loss something new went terribly wrong. 

“Will I regain feeling in the hand?” she asked.

“It may take some time, but yes,” he said. “Swordwork will be difficult, I know, but it is the best I can do. _Ir abelas_.”

She’d never heard an apology from him before. She met his eyes, cool and calm, with a hint of the remorse she’d glimpsed that day in the library. Any enmity she had left melted as she fell back against the pillows, too exhausted to hold on to her anger. 

“ _Ma serannas_. Truly. I…”

“It is what any of us would have done. I simply had the knowledge.” He inclined his head with a bow and rose from the bed, leaving a phial of some dark, foul-looking substance on her nightstand. “Drink this sometime in the next hour. Rest today, but you should be able to resume activities tomorrow.”

“And he means _rest_ ,” Dorian added with a stern glance. “No leaving that sumptuous bed of yours.”

Shohreh let out a small groan, glancing over at the assorted reports on her desk that desperately needed dealing with. “Surely I can—”

Dorian arched a perfect eyebrow, and she shut her mouth. “Indulge in sloth, my friend. Perhaps your paramour will read to you.” 

He shot a winning smile over to Cassandra that withered at her stony expression.

“Or, perhaps not.” He gazed warmly back at Shohreh and kissed her on both cheeks. “I’ll come see you later. Give a shout if she tries to kill you.”

He gave a flourishing little bow to Cassandra before he swept down the stairs, Solas following with a brisk nod in farewell. Cassandra glared after them briefly, then stood and took the vacated spot on the bed beside Shohreh. She shrank back a bit against Cassandra’s flinty, silent gaze, but Cassandra pressed their foreheads together, her lips moving in prayer, her skin pulsing warm against Shohreh’s.

“If you ever, _ever_ do that again,” she murmured. “I will kill you myself.”

“It wasn’t something I could help,” Shohreh replied, but she kissed Cassandra anyway, an apology where she could not speak. Cassandra’s lips met hers gently, then she kissed her cheeks, her forehead, each of her closed eyes. She settled against the headboard of the bed beside Shohreh, and Shohreh leaned against her shoulder, breathing in the scent of pomegranate mixed in with sweat. Cassandra ran a hand absently through her hair, her fingers carding gently through unruly waves that had come loose during her convalescence.

“I don’t know what we’d have done without Solas. He …he cares about you, Shohreh, in his own way. I know he has said things about the Dalish, but…”

A bitter taste welled up on her tongue, one that surfaced every time homesickness wound through her. Resentment towards Solas bloomed once more. “No, you don’t know. He tells me I assume the worst, but he makes every judgement of my people, so enchanted by his spirits he can’t see how we lost our history or the cruelties that shaped us. And he thinks I blindly follow them? I have insults of my own. But I have lived with them. They have protected me, and I them. _He_ cannot insult them,” she snarled, anger and hurt consuming her in a way that always rendered her weak. “He doesn’t know what it is to be called _seth'lin_ by your own family.” 

Cassandra remained silent through her outburst, her hand continuing to stroke Shohreh’s hair.

“Is this why you never talk of your people?” she asked finally. “Why Clan Lavellan is only discussed at the war table?”

Shohreh sighed. She’d thought of home so many times since this began, of Enaya and Mithran and her family, but she hadn’t been able to bring herself to speak their names. “It’s…complicated.”

“Family often is. I would listen, if you feel you can share.”

She didn’t, but Cassandra had been so open about her own painful past, back when they still barely trusted each other. Now, more than ever, Shohreh owed her the same. She sat up so that she faced Cassandra fully, her hands clenched tightly together.

“My clan traveled around the northern Free Marches, as I think you know. We never stayed long in one place, for fear of attacks from humans. When I was eight, we…lingered too long outside Ansburg. A local militia got tired of the knife-ears, blamed us for some imagined offense, and set fire to the aravels. I and two other children were playing well beyond the camp when it happened, and we couldn’t get back before the men drove them away. We hid while they burned the remnants of the camp, certain they’d killed our entire clan.” 

“Maker’s breath,” Cassandra whispered.

“A wholesome childhood experience.” Shohreh tried for a crooked smile that just came out brittle. “We got lucky. A captain in the city guard found us and took us in. She did right by us, loved us and helped reunite us with our clan, eventually. But we lived in Ansburg for almost six years.”

“Six years,” Cassandra echoed. “That…explains a lot.”

“Doesn’t it, though.” Shohreh grimaced. “Haven’t you ever wondered why I’m so much more at ease with humans than other Dalish?”

“I confess, I have not encountered enough Dalish to have a comparison.”

“Ah,” Shohreh said. She suddenly wondered how the Inquisition would have taken to someone wholly of her people. Without the Marcher accent that she adopted to set people more at ease or the little habits she’d picked back up surrounded by shemlen, perhaps they would not have been so quick to accept a Herald marked by vallaslin. 

“They called it a miracle when we returned to them. Children are the clan’s future, and they thought we were dead. But we never quite fit, not in the same way.” Shohreh shook her head. “Everyone kept us at arm’s length, whether they meant to or not. We’d absorbed too many of the shemlen’s ways, endured whispers that we were no longer Dalish. Sometimes, it felt all I had was Mithran and Enaya, the other lost children. We threw ourselves into our training, determined to prove everyone wrong. By the time we came of age, the whispers around us faded.”

Cassandra nodded, and for a moment Shohreh could only hear the low crackle of the hearth at the other end of the room. “And yet?”

Shohreh drew in a deep breath and allowed the old ache to fill her. Years later, and she still did not know how to handle her grief. “Well, Enaya and I became lovers, eventually. It never should have happened--we were too close, had shared too much, but it worked, for a time. Maybe we’d have stayed together longer if Mithran hadn’t died.”

“Oh,” Cassandra breathed softly. “Oh, I am sorry.”

Shohreh gave a tight shrug and bit down on her lip, unable to meet Cassandra’s eyes. “Wasting sickness. Nothing anyone could have done. But it broke something between us. Without him, we couldn’t keep our worst selves at bay. She blamed herself, being a healer, I tried to kill anything I could get my hands on, and we couldn’t—we never gave our grief any voice. Not until the end. And I was not kind.”

Memories of their final fight surfaced, harshness Shohreh hadn’t known she possessed. Enaya had thrown her own cruelty Shohreh’s way, but she would not disparage her before Cassandra. She’d said nothing that was not true.

“She left the clan soon after. Went back to Ansburg. These last three years…the clan embraced me more than it ever had, helped me to heal. But I’d never felt so alone. When Deshanna chose to send me to the Conclave…I know it was for my experience, but there’s some small part of me that felt banished. Whether or not that’s true.”

Shohreh could feel Cassandra’s eyes on her but she could not look up at them. Leliana’s warning echoed back to her, of the way she kept her emotions in check until they bubbled over and she could no longer bear it, acting with such blind fury that too often led her to hurt the people she loved the most. She did not care if her temper burned Solas, but her own stubbornness spilled over to hurt Cassandra, too. And the Nightingale couldn’t have known that Shohreh argued with Cassandra over minor things nearly every day because the alternative would leave them both shattered. 

“We are all of us here banished in some way,” Cassandra said at last. “Whether by choice or circumstance. I left the Seekers for this cause and did not hesitate. But they are still my family. Your clan is still your family. Nothing they say, and nothing Solas says, can change that.”

Unshed tears obscured her vision, her teeth cutting into her lip to keep herself steady, because she could not weep, not for this. Every time the war council received missives from her clan indicating the danger she’d brought to them she’d flown outside herself, pressed her fears and her guilt down so deep she hoped they’d vanished entirely. Whenever it surfaced, her throat constricted so tightly it closed off her breath, and all she could do was blink furiously, head tilted toward the ceiling until her body’s vise eased.

“Thank you,” she said when she trusted herself to speak again. “Every time I hear something out of Wycome…gods. I don’t know if I’ll have a clan to return to, when this is over.”

“I will pray for their safety,” Cassandra said, before she flushed in embarrassment at the words. “That is…I know it is not to their Creators, but the protection of one more cannot hurt, yes?”

“It certainly couldn’t hurt.” Weariness enveloped her, and she settled back so that her head once more rested against Cassandra’s shoulder, her skin warm beneath her own. “I’m sorry I didn’t tell you all this before.”

Cassandra kissed her gently on the crown of her head. “It is difficult to speak of such pain. But I’m glad you told me. Everything you’ve done here—you do it in great part for them, yes?”

“For them,” Shohreh murmured. “And for you.”

***

Blackwall’s betrayal knocked her flat on her back, with no warning beyond the cryptic conversation they’d had the night before he left, which she’d attributed to weariness in laboring for their arduous cause. How utterly wrong she’d been. She’d grown to love the grizzled bear of a man, for his dedication to the Inquisition but more his kindness to her and those in her circle. If only she’d known how conditional that kindness was, that it came not out of sincerity but out of some self-pitying need to wash the blood from his hands.

Fury ruled her in the Val Royeaux prison, her voice only steady because she concentrated all her efforts on it. Her vision blurred, her whole body shook, and she wished she’d gotten any satisfaction out of calling him pathetic. Instead he simply sat there, as if he took some kind of perverse pleasure from the insult, determined to paint himself as a noble martyr despite all his words to the contrary. That, she would not allow.

“Let him rot,” she snapped to Cullen, and stalked out into the rain.

She’d brought her closest companions along—Varric, Dorian, the Bull—knowing somehow that she’d need to lean on them no matter the outcome. But she could not possibly have fathomed this, and they journeyed back to Skyhold in silence, none of them daring to say a word to her. Dorian brought her tea in the evening; Bull let her hit him as hard as she could with his quarterstaff; and Varric…well, Varric told her stories, eventually. Told her more of Anders, of their friendship, how none of the Champion’s friends foresaw the destruction he’d wreak in Kirkwall.

“Hawke killed him,” he said gruffly. “It was probably a kindness. She couldn’t let him go, no matter how their ideals aligned, and—well, the Templars wouldn’t have shown mercy. They’d probably have made him Tranquil. He made it perfectly clear he’d rather die than be subject to that.”

_No justice, though_ , she thought bitterly. Her mind drifted back to Val Royeaux, where Blackwall’s sentence had undoubtedly been carried out by now, and tasted bile in her throat.

The rain followed them across the empire, turning to sleet in the mountains, and she was wet and shivering when they made her way through the gates. No one paid them much mind as they entered, a fact Shohreh was unspeakably grateful for—too often, the Inquisitor’s return was made into a production by anyone out on the grounds, and she’d have to mingle with a smile while exhausted and longing for a bath. Bull clapped her on the back before he went to his quarters, hard enough for her boots to sink a bit into the mud, and she squeezed Dorian’s hand before he followed suit. Cassandra had been gone for over a fortnight, chasing a new lead on the missing Seekers, but she scanned the training grounds all the same in hope. In the distance, she glimpsed distinctive purple sleeves against the sea of Inquisition green in the training grounds, and she breathed a quiet sigh of relief. 

“HEY! You useless shit!” a loud, furious voice sounded from near the tavern, and she turned to see Sera stalking toward her, hands clenched into fists at her sides. Dismay filled Shohreh, but before she had time to think or even react, Sera reached her and punched her square in the face. Pain exploded around Shohreh’s temple, her cheekbone smarting as her eyes watered instantly. She brought her hand up to cover the eye, breathing in sharply to keep from stumbling back any further.

“Fuck, Sera…”

“You _left him_.” Sera’s accusation cut through the ringing in her ears, and she looked up to see that her eyes had filled with tears. “All he did for you, for us, and you just _left him_ to be some noble’s spectacle…”

“Fuck,” Shohreh muttered again. Out of the corner of her uninjured eye, she saw dark shapes striding toward them both, but she waved them off. “I don’t suppose anyone told you why?”

“What’s it matter?” Sera retorted furiously. “Nothing he did deserved you doing him like that. Is that how the Dalish treat their friends, then?”

Shohreh opened her mouth to retort but stopped herself, willing the insult and pain in her head not to dictate her next words. “He’s not Blackwall, Sera. He never was. His name is Thom Rainier, he murdered an entire family for a bit of coin, then let other soldiers be put to death while he took up a lie. He deserved what he got, a thousand times over.” She spoke with far more conviction than she felt.

Disbelief, then pure pain crossed Sera’s face, and she backed up with a small shake of her head. “No. No, he wouldn’t… it was some noble family, I’ll bet. Probably had it coming.” 

At this, Shohreh lost her temper entirely.

“ _Children_ had it coming?” she shrieked. “What about the soldiers who served under him, who had no idea their orders were bad? Are you really so twisted by your childish _shit_ that you’d—”

“Enough!” Cassandra’s voice cut across the field. Shohreh realized she now stood inches from Sera, fist curled and ready to throw a punch of her own. Cassandra strode quickly toward them both, and she took Shohreh by the elbow when she reached her. She jabbed a finger towards Sera, who balked at the Seeker’s fierce glare.

“You, take a walk. You, come with me,” she snapped, and steered Shohreh away from Sera towards the barracks. She allowed herself to be led, the pain in her face giving way to a dull throbbing, her face flaming in shame and anger. Cassandra brought her to her usual table inside the barracks, at which point Shohreh wrenched herself out of her grasp and paced in agitation, her fingers fumbling as she tried to remove the bracers strapped to her forearms.

“She has no idea,” she muttered. “She wasn’t there, she didn’t hear him…”

“I can arrange for her to be locked up for the night,” Cassandra said in her standard deadpan. “Gross insubordination, after all.”

“Don’t even joke,” Shohreh replied darkly. “I just…”

The final strap finally came free, and she threw the bracer across the room in fury. Cassandra raised both eyebrows.

“I do not think I’ve ever seen you this angry.”

“And why shouldn’t I be? He played us all for fools. Pretending to be a better man…”

“Perhaps he became a better man,” Cassandra said softly. She sat at the table to look up at Shohreh, her eyes glittering in a strange light. “You cannot deny that he did good, while he served with us.”

“Does it matter?” Shohreh asked bitterly. “All the good he did doesn’t erase his crimes.”

“No, it does not. But he was hardly the only criminal in the Inquisition. We’ve taken on former bandits, mercenaries—Maker, I can never claim my own conscience is clean, any more than Cullen or the Bull or Sera herself.”

Anger curdled into despair within Shohreh, the fear she’d made the wrong, irrevocable choice only sharpened by Cassandra’s words. “Don’t do this. Please. Don’t go against me now, with this."

“I am not going against you. He was a contemptible lair, and I can’t say what I would have done in your position. But you made a choice. Now you must stand firm in the face of consequences.” 

She no longer had any fight left in her. She sat down at the table, intent on trying to see through her still-watering eye, and closed her right one so that the cracks in the table merged into a shimmering mess of brown. “So I should just let myself be punched in the face?”

Cassandra’s mouth quirked upward. “Perhaps not. But allow Sera her anger. He was her friend, too.”

Had this not been what she told herself, each time she issued a controversial command or pronounced judgement from that damn chair? She had to act by what she believed to be right, and it did not matter what anyone else thought. The Inquisition placed its trust in her, and her alone.

“He made his choice,” she murmured. “He was ready to accept his sentence. If I hadn’t gone after him, the outcome would have been exactly the same.”

Cassandra looked at her, her eyes almost pitying, and for a moment Shohreh felt very young, naïve beside a woman who’d seen enough war to know every consequence.

“Inaction is its own choice. You know that as well as I do.”

***

Cassandra told her of her efforts to track the Seekers, of every trail that stopped cold at Caer Oswin. “I almost went straight there,” she confessed, “but we were not adequately prepared. And I…I had hoped you might come with me.” 

They made arrangements to leave at first light, Shohreh not bothering to unpack her bags, and she spent the afternoon at the war table, receiving every update she could and studying the map to see what operations they could implement in her absence. Her advisors pointedly avoided commenting on the growing bruise beneath her eye, and she downed another draught of elfroot to keep the ache at bay. The sun hung low on the horizon when she finally retreated to the garden, bleary-eyed and weary, the quiet stillness a welcome after the chaos of the last few days. The blood lotus she’d planted had finally bloomed, and she knelt beside them, the soil soft between her fingers as she picked what she needed and repotted the rest.

“Didn’t ping you as the type to get your hands dirty.” She looked up to see Sera standing above her, arms crossed tightly in front of her.

“I grew up in the woods, Sera.” Shohreh kept her voice light. “And Elan hates putting together the bee jars.”

“Hmph. Get the job done, don’t they?” 

“Exquisitely,” Shohreh answered. “I’ll be taking another half dozen to Caer Oswin.” 

“You’re leaving tomorrow, then? With Cassandra?”

“At sunrise.” 

“Right,” Sera said, and she gnawed at her lower lip, suddenly uncertain. Shohreh watched her, tense and wary, unsure if she could handle anymore conflict or even hear Blackwall’s name. 

“Look, whatever you and me’ve got—the Seeker’s a decent sort. She’s put her life down for all of us, one point or another. Seems she could use the help, going after her own, and she always needs someone getting into places she can’t. I want to come with you,” Sera finished in a rush, looking back at Shohreh with bright, half-accusing eyes. “You gonna have a problem with that?”

Warmth flooded Shohreh, almost enough to bring tears to her eyes again, and she shook her head. “Of course I’m not, Sera. Especially now that I know how hard you can hit.”

“I did do a good one, didn’t I?” Sera gave a little laugh, and she reached down to take the blood lotus from Shohreh’s lap. “I can help you with these, then. They’ll get done a lot faster with two, yeah?”

Shohreh gave her a rueful smile. “Thanks, Sera.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Soooooo I didn't play Trespasser until after I'd finished writing this fic, and now having played it I realized my handling of the Anchor may not be entirely canon! WHOOPS. I do think there's room to play with how it affects the Inquisitor pre Trespasser and various ways that might have been handled, but take that how you will.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Cassandra confronts Lord Seeker Lucius, Lavellan reads her poetry in the light of a grove, but the future of the Chantry looms over them both.

They left Caer Oswin in silence, a stunned pall hanging over them as they walked back to where they’d left their mounts. The horrific, veined face of the man called Daniel haunted Shohreh, punctuated only by the look of rage and heartache on Cassandra’s face as she cut down the Lord Seeker. But Cassandra did not speak a word to anyone as they rode southwest, straight-backed and stiff in her saddle, and Shohreh did not try to disturb her, at a loss for words.

They made camp in a shaded grove a little bit east of a swift-running brook, the rushing water audible even at a distance. Cassandra disappeared shortly after they set up their tents, but when Shohreh went after her Sera stopped her, faint grief in her eyes when she shook her head. Dorian made quick work of a fire, the warmth doing nothing to stave off the chill that seeped into her bones. He beckoned her over, tutting at the blood that dripped down her chest from a gash along her clavicle. She’d barely noticed it, the pain blending in various other bruises, but she sat still and allowed Dorian to clean and bind the wound. She picked at the tasteless field rations they brought out, listening to half-hearted conversation between Sera and Dorian about Inquisition matters they normally wouldn’t give two shits about. 

The sun sank low enough to bathe them in a red glow, Cassandra still nowhere to be found, and Shohreh finally stood, heading off in the direction where the Seeker had disappeared. Cassandra had made no effort to hide her tracks, so she followed them silently through the trees until she came upon the stream, its water glinting from the sun. Cassandra knelt before it, her hands pressed together in prayer.

“Blessed are the righteous, the lights in the shadow. In their blood, the Maker’s will is written.”

Shohreh’s throat tightened. Sadness and discomfort wound through her, knowing she was intruding on something sacred, a litany in a faith that was not hers. She backed away slowly, careful to keep her footsteps soft atop the scattering of leaves and branches. 

“Don’t go.” Cassandra’s broken voice stopped her in her tracks. “Please.”

Shohreh stepped forward to kneel beside Cassandra, who fell back on her heels and sat with her knees to her chest, staring out at the rushing water. Her eyes were rimmed red from weeping, tear tracks visible against the blood and grime on her face. Shohreh drew a clean strip of cloth from her pouch and dipped it into the brook. She took Cassandra’s chin in one hand and gently wiped the dirt from her face with the other, Cassandra flinching when the cloth passed over what turned out to be a growing bruise at the base of her temple. Shohreh murmured soft, wordless sounds of comfort before she rinsed the cloth out in the water. She crushed the last of her dried elfroot and rubbed it against the cloth; held it against Cassandra’s temple until the tense lines in her face softened.

“That will have to do for now,” she said. “Dorian can heal it better when we return to camp.” 

“No magic,” Cassandra said tightly. “Not tonight. Perhaps not ever again.”

Shohreh nodded in understanding, and sat with Cassandra’s gloved hands in her lap. She carefully pulled off each glove, enveloping her rough, calloused hands between her own, channeling what life she could into them.

“So pointless. None of them needed to die. Seekers are no strangers to death, but this…” her voice shook. “Daniel’s soul would have been corrupted and swallowed whole, had we not been there. When no one’s heart held better intentions.”

“He was your apprentice, you said?” Shohreh did not know if she pried too deeply by asking, but Cassandra gave a slow nod.

“Bright and curious, from the day he came to us. I think he’d have liked you. Ambitious to a fault…” Her face crumpled again, and Shohreh pulled her into an embrace, holding her so tight that Cassandra collapsed fully against her, her entire body trembling. She wept bitterly, her cries muffled by Shohreh’s shoulder, before she pulled back and wiped fiercely at her eyes.

“That damned book,” she said, her voice thick. “I can see it haunting me, and I want nothing more than to burn it. But I can’t…I owe it to them to see. I owe it to myself.” 

The thought to burn it had crossed Shohreh’s mind, staring balefully at the thick tome back at camp, and though she never would act on such a destructive impulse she understood it perfectly. “Would you like me to be there, when you read it?”

Cassandra’s lips twitched in what would have been a smile in ordinary circumstances, her eyes sad. “Thank you, Shohreh, but no. This is something I must do myself.”

Shohreh titled her head in understanding, wishing beyond measure she could do something to ease Cassandra’s pain. They sat together, Cassandra’s hands in hers, until the sun sank behind the treeline and twilight enveloped them.

“We should get back to camp, if you are ready,” she said at last. Cassandra nodded, and Shohreh helped her to her feet. Cassandra leaned on her as they walked, shivering a bit from the cold.

“Would it help to tell me more of Daniel? How did you train him, if you were Right Hand?” 

Cassandra was silent for a moment, and Shohreh feared she’d said utterly the wrong thing, but soon her voice filled the stillness of the forest. “He was not unlike Leliana, really. Serious in every official capacity, but never above a prank or two. It was something I never understood, given his desire to rise through the ranks…”

***

Later, when they returned to Skyhold, she found Cassandra at her usual table, bent over the massive book. She confided in her the book’s contents, the truth that shook her faith and revealed how far the Seekers had strayed. Shohreh had to stop herself from recoiling when Cassandra told her of the Rite of Tranquility, her own disgust at the Seekers pointless in the face of Cassandra’s own despair. All her instincts screamed at her to tell Cassandra to let the Seekers go, but in the end…she could not take that from the woman she loved. And she did not trust anyone but Cassandra Pentaghast to take something so horrific and transform it into something good.

Cassandra grieved for days after their return, so subtly only those closest to her could detect the slight slump to her shoulders or the emptiness behind her eyes when speaking at the war council table. Shohreh spent as much time with her as she could, brought her meals in her quarters, but a gulf formed between them, something larger than Cassandra’s sorrow for the Seekers. She knew as well as anyone that sometimes people simply needed time, but that did not stop her from wishing she could do something special for Cassandra, something that could take her mind off death and politics and war.

It was Vivienne, of all people, who gave Shohreh guidance, when they took tea together outside on her balcony. “She wants to be courted, my dear. She wants to be treated like the women of her stories, by a suitor who gives her flowers and reads her poetry by candlelight.”

“I’ve given her flowers!” Shohreh protested. “I even made them into crowns for her. Twice.”

“ _Real_ flowers, my darling,” Vivienne said with an arched eyebrow. “If you’d like, I can arrange for some roses to be delivered to Skyhold.”

Shohreh gratefully accepted the offer, and spent the next couple of days tracking down every spare candle in the fortress. Poetry proved to be the most vexing part, and Varric found her bent over a sheaf of paper at a table in the main hall, gripping a quill so tight her fingers ached. She had written a few lines on the page, but most of them she’d furiously crossed out soon after. 

“Case of writer’s block, Big Guy?”

“Let Fen’Harel take me now.” Shohreh clutched at her temples when she muttered the oath. “You’re a writer, Varric. How on earth do you do poetry?”

“I don’t. Perfectly happy sticking to prose. Poetry has meter and rules and…” he wrinkled his nose. “Weren’t you bragging the other night about your talent for erotic poetry?”

“ _Erotic_ poetry,” Shohreh emphasized. “Not romantic poetry. I don’t think Cassandra will be taken with ‘how I wish that we were boning / so I could listen to you moaning’…”

Varric laughed. “You and Buttercup should collaborate.”

“Not on this.” Shohreh rested her head on the table and groaned. “I barely have time for this anyhow. Josephine’s going to kill me if I don’t get those reports to her tomorrow.”

Varric sat down beside her. “You know, there’s plenty of poetry already in the world that the Seeker adores. I happen to know a collection she’d particularly enjoy…got a line on a copy in Redcliffe. I can go with you to pick it up, if you want.”

Shohreh eyed Varric with suspicion. “You’d help me get something. To make Cassandra happy.”

Varric gave a sheepish shrug. “Even the Seeker deserves a bit of a break in times like this.”

“Varric Tethras. You’ve developed a soft spot for our Seeker.”

Varric scowled. “Just don’t tell anyone.”

***

Cole had been the one to tell her about the grove; he’d found it when he needed to escape the volume of everyone’s thoughts in Skyhold. She arranged a wide blanket on the grass, set candles atop it to keep it from blowing away, and lit the rest of the candles so that they formed a glowing beacon along the path.

She read some of the poems for herself until Cassandra arrived, rolling her eyes at their saccharine nature but somehow still charmed. When she heard the telltale step of Cassandra’s boots, she turned to the poem Varric told her to, and began to read.

_"On aching branch do blossoms grow, the wind a hallowed breath.  
_ _It carries the scent of honeysuckle, sweet as the lover’s kiss.  
_ _It brings the promise of more tomorrows, of sighs and whispered bliss."_

Cassandra’s eyes widened in astonishment, and then she shoved Shohreh playfully when she spoke the second line with more dramatic embellishment.

“You can’t be serious.”

“We don’t need to be serious every single minute, do we?” Shohreh gave her her best shit-eating grin.

“You certainly do not. And that is the poem you chose?”

Brief horror fell upon Shohreh, wondering if Varric had somehow set her up. “What’s wrong with it?”

Cassandra snatched the book from her. “ _Carmenum di Amatus_. I thought this one was banned.

 _“Her lips on mine speak words not voiced, a prayer  
Which travels down my spine like flames that shatter night.  
Her eyes reflect the heaven’s stars, the Maker’s light.  
_ _My body opens, filled and blessed, my spirit there._ ”

The words that sounded so foolish in Shohreh’s head became music through Cassandra’s voice, the gentle verse speaking to everything she loved about this difficult, impossible woman. She came up behind her as she read, running a hand along her arm, praying to every god that she had done this one thing right.

“ _Not merely housed in flesh, but brought to life,_ ” she finished, her lips dangerously close to Cassandra’s neck. “Would you like to read another?”

Cassandra threw her arms around her in answer, kissing her so fiercely Shohreh took a quick step back, unbalanced. They fell to the ground, a tangle of limbs and heat, and Shohreh gasped as Cassandra bit down on her bottom lip, her hands fumbling to remove her breastplate.

Lovemaking under the stars was common among the Dalish; things became too crowded in tents or aravels, and it was simpler to find a secluded spot beneath the trees, bathed in moonlight. Nothing Shohreh had done before compared to this night with Cassandra, of the way the wind enveloped them when she kissed the length of her stomach down to her thighs, candles flickering around them when she lost herself in Cassandra’s heat, hands pulling tight on Shohreh’s hair when she brought Cassandra to the brink. As if the same fate that drove them together finally sent down a blessing, cementing what they had been so frightened to say.

Afterward, they lay together atop the blanket, staring up at the stars together, warmed by the familiar comfort of their bodies pressed together.

“They will say one of two things about me,” Cassandra said sleepily, and Shohreh turned to look at her. “That I stood at the Inquisitor’s side, her protector and her lover. That it was meant to be. Or they will say I was led from the path of faith by the wiles of a madwoman.”

Shohreh propped herself up on her elbow, gazing down at her with a smile. “Your optimism is touching.” 

“If you wanted sweetness and light, you picked the wrong woman.”

“Don’t worry,” Shohreh replied cheerfully. “I’m sweet and light enough for both of us.”

“That you are.” Cassandra lifted a hand to briefly brush against her cheek. “I have feared you since the moment I laid eyes upon you. Did you know that?”

Shohreh fell still, her heart pounding louder in her chest. “I did not.”

“I have never known anything like it.” Cassandra sat up so that she met Shohreh’s eyes, her hand skimming across her clavicle and down to rest on her stomach.

“I have been with only one other in my life. A mage, with whom I adventured when I was still very young. He died at the Conclave.” Her voice broke. “I will not let Corypheus win. I will not let him take you from me.”

Shohreh found she could not speak, her fears for the future laid bare by Cassandra’s words. She had never known how to combat it beyond jokes and witticisms, things she could not, would not, wield with Cassandra. She had nothing she could say that would bring them both peace. Only—

“I love you.”

Cassandra brought her hand up to cradle the back of Shohreh’s neck, resolve and fire illuminating her grey eyes. “Here, tonight, I believe you.” 

***

Of course it was Mother Giselle who brought everything crashing down to reality.

Shohreh knew Cassandra and Leliana’s names were whispered as candidates for the next Divine, but she’d dismissed the notion as easily as she’d dismissed the Chantry sister the day of her return from Halamshiral. Neither of them were priests, they allied themselves firmly with the Inquisition, and Shohreh was no friend of the Maker’s faithful. But when she found Cassandra arguing with Mother Giselle, looking contemplative rather than combative, she realized she’d ignored the matter all too willingly.

“You’d make an excellent Divine,” she said, and meant it. Her heart swelled when she listened to Cassandra speak so earnestly of her wishes for those who shared her faith, of the change she would bring to the Circles and Chantry doctrine. When she spoke, Shohreh believed with her entire being that Cassandra could enact the reforms she spoke of, and that under her, the Chantry could become something that mages did not fear or her own people did not disdain. She knew no one else who acted on her convictions with such clarity, whose faith was not clouded by evangelism or a desire for power. She’d been earnest and honest when she urged Cassandra to consider it.

It was only after they parted that her stomach lurched in the horrible, crushing realization: Cassandra becoming Divine would end them.

She paced around Skyhold for nearly a quarter hour, berating herself for her idiocy. She’d been so sincere without giving a single thought for what it would mean for her, for them, for her very soul. But then, what else had this Inquisition been but her sacrificing one piece of herself after another in the name of the greater good? Her left hand still went numb after closing Fade rifts, she’d burned the last of her idealism on the pyres of the Exalted Plains, she’d endured every whisper and insult to the Dalish as she smiled and danced at the Winter Palace. Her salvation came in the friends who had grown impossibly dear to her and Cassandra most of all, in the whispers between them and the soft sigh of her breath on her skin. She couldn’t be asked to sacrifice that too.

She retreated to the library eventually, stalking the shelves in search of volumes on Divine Justinia I. She knew very little of the Chantry and its history, but she remembered Rosemary telling her stories of the first Divine, the one called the warrior-priest. She indulged in a search for other titles from her childhood, grand stories of knight-enchanters and ancient queens. Not as spicy as _Swords and Shields,_ but with plenty of their own magic. Enough to fuel her daydreams as a girl, when she’d had no notion that living out adventures proved to be rather depressing. 

Dorian found her near sunset, a stack of books on the little table before her and her nose in a general history of the Chantry. He took a seat across from her, craned his neck so he could read along the book’s spine. “Planning to convert, are you?”

She ignored him, determined to finish the chapter on the rise of Emperor Drakon, before she sighed and rested her head against the plush backing of the chair.

“Do you know what I missed most, when I returned to my clan?” she asked. Dorian raised his eyebrows in surprise, gave a slight shake of his head, and she swept her arm around the library. “This. Books. Guard-Captain Rosemary taught us how to read Common, and she had a library in her townhouse. Not nearly as grand as this, of course, but the woman was frightfully well-read for a soldier. I was curious, of course, and terribly unhappy so much of the time. Rosemary tried her best, but…”

“Books became your escape,” Dorian finished. “Mine too, as a child, when I wasn’t dueling my fellow magisters’ sons. Though even then, I found my most cutting spells in books.’”

“You must have been a nightmare.”

“You have no idea.” Dorian’s eyes clouded for a moment, then he shook his head, steepling his fingers as he regarded Shohreh. “I’m sorry, we were talking about _your_ miserable childhood.”

She snorted. “Not much more to tell. Rosemary tracked down Clan Lavellan, songs were sung upon our return, I wept with joy to see my mother and father again. But I missed the books. Having a home with foundations. Being viewed as an object of curiosity rather than scorn.”

She scowled, but then let out a sigh when she glanced around the tower room. “Would-be gods and death aside…I’m glad to have a home here. Especially now, knowing I might lose it again.”

Dorian smiled in sympathy. “I don’t think Skyhold is going anywhere anytime soon.”

She slumped low in her chair, suddenly miserable again. “No. But Cassandra might become the next Divine.”

Understanding dawned in Dorian’s eyes. “So _that’s_ what this is about.”

“After a fashion.”

“Well then.” Dorian pushed himself to his feet and took Shohreh’s hands, pulling her up so she reluctantly joined him. “I’ve endured enough heartache to know you’re in entirely the wrong place, darling. Come, let’s go get drunk.”

***

“I dug my own grave,” she moaned into her third glass of wine. They sat on the eastern balcony of her quarters, wrapped in a collection of blankets and furs with a small brazier lit between them. Only her ears were cold, battered by the wind, and she reconsidered the handknit ear-warmers Dalish had given her when the Chargers came to her aid in the Emprise.

“Impaled myself upon my own sword. Hoisted by my own—” she stopped and frowned. “What _is_ a petard?”

“A bomb,” Dorian answered. “A particularly crude and ineffective one, at that. Would be more accurate to say you hurled yourself against the rocks with your own catapult. Or were pecked to death by Leliana’s ravens. Or wait, no, asked Bull for some gatlock and—”

“All right, I get it,” Shohreh waved her hand impatiently. “The point is, I’m the architect of my own heartbreak.”

She took another gulp of wine, savoring the dry hint of roses on her tongue before she swallowed. “The worst part is, I wasn’t wrong. She would be perfect for the job.”

“Would she?” Dorian wrapped his arms around his knees and considered her, unexpectedly serious. “I admit I’m surprised to hear you say that.”

“Don’t tempt me, Dorian. I could come up with any excuse, that doesn’t make it—"

“No, I’m serious. You two have disagreed at every political crossroads. She was practically apoplectic when you offered an alliance to the mages. And Maker, the shouting after Adamant…” 

“You weren’t even at Adamant.”

“Varric was. Shouldn’t keep a dwarf from his sleep, Shohreh,” Dorian tutted. “And I heard plenty of the shouting when you returned.” 

Shohreh sighed. She’d been furious with Cassandra in those weeks, enough to wonder if she’d ever truly known the Seeker at all. For all her criticisms of the Chantry she’d spent her life executing its will, by the side of templars and clerics, and Shohreh would never share Cassandra’s mistrust of mages. They came to an understanding once they’d reconciled, but their differing views had not had a chance to collide since then. Veered close at Halamshiral, yes, but ultimately saved by the chance finding of a single locket. 

“They are considering Leliana as well, yes?” Dorian poured himself another glass of wine. “She seems much more aligned with your outlook of the world.”

“She is. We spoke about it briefly, after Halamshiral.” She barely remembered the conversation now. They’d both been preoccupied at the time, the aftermath of the ball and movements against Corypheus their primary focus. Now the idea gave her relief, in more ways than one. And yet…

“I can’t oppose Cassandra with any hope of impartiality. I’d have no way of knowing if I'd do it because of my convictions or because I wish very badly for her to remain here, with me.”

“What is her opinion on the Circles of Magi?” Dorian asked lightly. “Your stance on the rebellion has never wavered.” 

Shohreh’s spirits sank when she considered the question. Alone on a cold balcony, away from the passion that infused Cassandra’s very being, her plans took a very different shape. “Cassandra would reform the Circles. Reform, with mages self-governing, but they would remain. I want to believe that is enough, but…I know the abuses perpetuated. I’ve spoken with the rebels who’ve aided our cause. Is there any reform possible for something so broken?”

“A question I’ve often asked myself about the magisterium.” Dorian gave a bitter chuckle. “What a cautionary tale my homeland is.”

“Leliana would break down the Circles as well as the Chantry and rebuild from the ashes,” she murmured. “What Dalish _hasn’t_ wished for that to happen, after all we’ve suffered? But people tend to react badly when someone breaks their valuables.”

Dorian shivered and pulled his furs tighter around him, scooting over so that he huddled against Shohreh. “As best I understand it, the Chantry is largely responsible for the state of things in this frozen, wretched wasteland. Leliana would simply be seeing it through to the logical conclusion.”

“Ever the pragmatist.” Her own wine glass empty, Shohreh plucked Dorian’s from his hand and took a sip before she choked on the astringent, dirtlike taste that passed down her throat. “ _Fenedhis,_ when did you switch to red?”

“Once I realized you’d do exactly this.” Dorian smiled smugly and took his glass back. She smacked him hard on the arm, and they tousled briefly before they burst into laughter, clutching each other as they dissolved into the choked wheezing of the mildly drunk. 

“And people look to me as their salvation. If only they knew.” Usually, such a pronouncement would be tinged with bitterness, but softened by the wine, Shohreh merely curled up against Dorian and stared up at the night sky. Only a few stars shone against the dark, the half-moon waning just above the mountaintops.

“Thank you,” she murmured. “For listening. And everything. You’ve always taken me as I am, and I don’t—”

“Hush.” Dorian kissed the top of her head. “I thought we hated emotions. Better to smile at the scandal we’ve become.” 

Shohreh chuckled. Those rumors, at least, had mercifully died down, replaced with equally salacious gossip once Cassandra and Iron Bull entered the picture.

“The future of the Chantry decided upon by a Dalish elf and a Tevinter mage. That’s enough scandal for a lifetime.”

“It must be the doing of your gods. I don’t think the Maker has much of a sense of humor.”

“Fen’Harel wanted a couple of laughs,” she said wryly, and sighed. She still only half-believed in the Creators, and still marveled that the woman she loved held so strongly to her faith, more than anyone she’d known. Perhaps she would have to put her own faith in Cassandra, in the strength of their bond. She could grasp that sort of trust, if she reached far enough—that they be guided not by deities but by their own convictions and choices, aligned somehow for a better future. 


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Events in Wycome come to a head, and Lavellan tries desperately to determine the best course of action.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Mild emetophobia CW for this chapter.

She awoke to a hangover and a summons from Leliana, which never promised good news. A raven fluttered through the window and onto her bed, pecking her on the nose despite her open eyes. she shoved it away with an aggrieved groan and fumbled for the rolled scrap of paper it left on the covers. Her eyes ached when she held the scrap close to her face, making out the looping, neat writing. 

_Missive from the hart. Meet me upstairs. L_

Fear clenched in Shohreh’s stomach. It was their code for Clan Lavellan. 

She dressed quickly, her head pounding, and she didn’t bother to wake Dorian sprawled on the couch as she rushed out of her quarters and across the main hall. She’d breathed the greatest sigh of relief in her life just two weeks before, when a Leliana showed her a letter detailing how her agents snuck clan members into the city and brought down the traitorous Duke and his Venatori. The irony was not lost on her, that those who’d chastised her for missing Ansburg now remained holed up in a similar town, allied with the city elves and humans of Wycome. But they’d been safe, out of danger—or so she thought. What could possibly have happened? 

She took the stairs up the tower two at a time, lungs burning when she reached the rookery, and she doubled over to catch her breath. A wave of nausea slammed into her, a parting gift from last night’s wine, and she clutched the railing with one hand, willing with all her might for it to pass. A tentative hand fell on her shoulder, and she looked up to see Leliana before her, eyebrows knit together in concern. “They’re safe,” she said, and Shohreh collapsed to the floor, any hope of composure gone. Leliana grimaced and placed a gloved hand to her forehead in remorse. “Maker, I’m sorry—of course a morning raven would worry you. They’re safe, but the situation is precarious. The letter is addressed to you.”

She held it out, and Shohreh took it with trembling hands, the familiar writing of Keeper Istimaethoriel slanted as if she wrote it in haste. She read it twice, the last paragraph a third time to make sure she memorized the pertinent details, before she pushed herself to her feet and handed the letter back to Leliana.

“So Wycome remains stable,” she said slowly. “It’s the other cities that threaten them. Because now some elves have power, and you wouldn’t be a true Marcher if you sat by and allowed _that_ to happen.” 

Bitterness wrenched the words from her mouth, still filmy and tasting of Dorian’s awful wine, and she wanted very much to slide back down to the floor. But she’d designated the rookery long ago as a place where her Inquisitor mask could not come off. 

“The world is changing, my lady,” Leliana said gently. “Has changed. You’ve played no small part in that, and you can do so again here. With your permission, I’ll pass the letter to Josephine and Cullen, and we can discuss it at the morning meeting.” 

Shohreh gave a brief nod. “Thank you.”

“Of course. In the meantime, may I offer you this?” Leliana rummaged through a drawer of her desk and pulled out a tiny, suspicious-looking phial. “The Iron Bull swears by it for hangovers.”

Shohreh gaped at her, and Leliana laughed. “I’ve had enough wild nights of my own to recognize that look, Inquisitor. If I can remove at least one of your troubles today...”

“It wasn’t even that wild,” Shohreh grumbled. “Just moping.” 

“Oh, dear, that’s even worse. Here.” Leliana handed over the phial, which Shohreh took in trepidation. “Give it thirty seconds, you’ll be right as rain.”

“I appreciate it,” Shohreh said, winced, and tipped back the contents of the phial in one swallow. It tasted remarkably good, like the lemon candies she bought for Cassandra in Val Royeaux. _Promising start,_ she thought, but paused when she saw Leliana bring over a large tin basin from the other end of the rookery. “What do you—”

Leliana ducked the basin under her just in time, and she vomited with such force she felt her brain slamming into the front of her skull. She gagged at the smell, her eyes streaming, and vomited again in such spectacular fashion surely Solas heard her downstairs. She retched and coughed before she stood upright, glaring at Leliana, whose eyes sparkled with barely suppressed mirth. “That’s a _cure_?!”

“How do you feel?” Leliana asked simply.

Shohreh paused and took stock of her body. She’d purged the nausea, the headache was gone, even the sluggish weariness to her muscles seemed to have lifted away….

“That _damned_ Qunari.”

“’One and done, Red,’” Leliana said, in such an astonishingly good imitation of the Iron Bull that Shohreh burst into laughter. At least she could hold on to that to get her through the morning.

*** 

She did not laugh for the remainder of the day, staring at the war table map while she listened to proposals from her advisors on how to deal with the situation in Wycome. None of them gave her nearly the assurances she needed. Leliana’s agents had their hands tied, revealed as they were in getting the Dalish into the city. Josephine proposed a diplomatic solution, as always, while Cullen urged her to send soldiers to fortify Wycome. To the latter, Shohreh adamantly refused. 

“The Inquisition’s forces are to be used for the good of Thedas,” she said fiercely. “I can’t be seen treating it as my own private army, especially not in the Marches.” 

Cullen blew air out through his lips, his frustration barely masked. “With all due respect, Inquisitor, this _is_ your private army. It is pointless to pretend otherwise.” 

The notion made her want to throw up again. 

“I’ll have a decision for you tomorrow,” she said with a sigh. “Let’s move on.” 

She forced herself to give her full attention to the rest of their briefing, ordering agents into the heart of Orlais to secure more allies, the markers and pinned notes along the map so numerous she feared losing sight of those movements that mattered the most. She remained in the war room after the meeting ended, staring at Wycome, before she went to Josephine’s office to ask for dossiers on the diplomats she would send. 

Cassandra and Dorian each came to find her in the early afternoon, but Shohreh waved them away, inventing some excuse about filling out reports, fearing if she did not keep her pain held tight against her she might break entirely. In so many cases an operation’s requirements were so simple, a well-placed nudge from Josephine or a secret uncovered by Leliana. But each time new danger befell her clan she stepped with such fear, such care, the hatred that drove the militia in Ansburg burning brightly in her mind. Her own screams echoed in her sleep still, her and Enaya and Mithran falling on each other in despair, certain everyone they knew lay slaughtered in the camp’s ashes. She never lost sight of their fortune, that they returned to their clan alive and whole, but the grief had been real. Grief she could not possibly face again. 

She untied her hair from its severe knot and let it fall over her shoulders as she poured over the dossiers, making notes to herself in the fading light. She barely noticed when the door to the war room creaked open, and did not look up until she heard a voice speak her name. 

“Inquisitor?” She looked up to behold Cullen standing in the door. 

“Did you need me for something, Commander?” 

“You never came to the garden,” he answered. “Our chess game…” 

“Oh, fucking _damn_ it,” she cursed. She pinched the bridge of her nose hard and gave an apologetic look to her commander. “I’m so sorry Cullen, I completely forgot. I’m happy to play now, if you still—” 

But he waved a hand in understanding. “It’s all right. You clearly have something on your mind.” 

“When don’t I, though,” she murmured. Her chess games with Cullen had become a matter of practicality more than leisure; he used them to teach her lessons in warfare and tactics, aspects of the Inquisition she had the weakest grasp on. She’d made slow progress, made less agonizing by the commander’s easygoing nature, and though she still kept him at a relative distance she’d come to enjoy his company. 

He approached the war table and ran his hand along the markers near Wycome. “Still pondering what to do about your clan?” 

She nodded, and buried her head in her hands, hair falling around her in a curtain. “You know what the real irony is? I don’t even _like_ half the people in my clan. My uncles are all gossiping, interfering old men, our halla keeper still calls me shem-lover behind my back, and don’t get me started on my mother.” 

Cullen huffed a soft chuckle. “I had a friend growing up with nearly a dozen aunts and uncles. It was just my parents and siblings on our farm, and I envied him for having such a large family. He invited me to join them for Wintersend once, all thirty of them packed together for one feast. After that, I was rather glad to just have my siblings.” 

“Hah,” Shohreh snorted. “That sounds about right.” She took a marker off the map and fiddled with it, noting the way Cullen’s mouth twitched but he said nothing. In the early days, she’d twiddle the markers back and forth between her fingers with no memory of where to put it back, but she’d learned better now. 

“I imagine the world felt darker for that boy, when he left home,” she said softly, replacing the marker exactly where she found it. “If he ever left it at all. So many don’t, you know.” 

Cullen nodded and cleared his throat, staring down at his interlocked hands. “Can I ask you something, Your Worship?” 

“Shohreh,” she repeated for the thousandth time. “And of course.” 

He looked back up to meet her eyes and gestured over the map. “This is not the first time you’ve favored sending diplomats or spies when a company of soldiers would have sufficed. If it has anything to do with my fitness as a commander, I ask you—” 

“What?” Shohreh asked, taken aback. “Cullen, it’s not about that at all. Your recovery continues well enough, doesn’t it?” 

He hesitated just briefly before he nodded. “Well enough.” 

“It has nothing to do with you as a commander, or our soldiers themselves.” Shohreh sighed, running her hand over Halamshiral. “It’s…it’s difficult to explain.” 

Cullen took a seat across from her. “I’m listening.” 

She bit down on her lip. Commander Cullen Rutherford did not exactly invite confidences. “We’ve got a massive army, Cullen. One that grows every day. But we’re not a kingdom, we’re not the Chantry. Any time we plant our flag somewhere we’re a conquering force, benevolent or no. My people have been slaughtered by conquering armies for centuries. Halamshiral was ours, once, whether Celene acknowledges it or not. I will not turn into the oppressor. I will not have us smashing through cities, no better than those who lay claim to it. Not even for Wycome.” 

Cullen watched her, his face impassive, before he heaved a great sigh and shook his head. “I will not pretend I am not guilty of an oppressor’s sins. But you know as well as I do the Inquisition was not formed to conquer. The Inquisition was formed to combat the Breach, and then Corypheus. All we do, we do in service to that. And _you_ decide what becomes of us, Shohreh, after we’re done. You could very well disband the Inquisition, when this is over, and I will release my troops from their oaths. But right now, we are at war. Your people, as best as I can tell, have always been at war, and a losing one at that.” 

“Don’t let my Keeper hear you say that,” Shohreh muttered. 

“All the same.” In a startling breach of his usual formality, Cullen reached across the table and took her hands in his, his hazel eyes intent. “If I thought Josephine’s diplomats could handle this alone, I would step back without quarrel. But hear me, Inquisitor. If we try to negotiate with the Marchers, they will kill the elves and apologize later. I saw it at Kirkwall, and I’ll be damned if I see it again. Let me send my troops to Wycome. Let me save your family.”

***

When the raven flew to Cullen and he handed her the letter, her knees buckled under her and Cassandra had to grab her elbow to keep her from falling. She held the parchment before her with trembling hands, her eyes already blurred from tears, and it wasn’t until she wiped them furiously away that she read the blessed words, that her clan stood protected and alive. She let out a small shriek of joy before she threw herself into Cullen’s arms, squeezing him as tightly as she could. He let out a little _hurf_ of surprise, but he patted her awkwardly on the back as she cried into his shoulder. 

“I’m getting your stupid feathers all wet,” she said, and got them in her mouth for her trouble. 

“Don’t worry about it,” he answered gruffly. “It’s what we're here for.” 


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> What Pride Had Wrought

Shohreh lost sleep over plans for the Arbor Wilds in a way she hadn’t with any other campaign. Everything seemed to hinge on this battle, this last push to keep Corypheus from gaining another piece of what Sera called “fuckall magic” and finally grinding them into the dust. Her heart fluttered in her chest when she thought of Mythal’s temple, a piece of living history long lost to her people. Enaya’s vallaslin honored the protector goddess, as did those of her Keeper, Deshanna, and she sent silent messages out to them as she drew battle plans around the temple, hoping somehow they’d know she fought for them still.

She still felt less than confident about her strategical abilities, but neither could she stand listening to her advisors argue about approaches hour after hour, when it seemed they’d need all three’s resources to execute the plan. She barked commands at each of them, signed letters for Josephine to send to their allies, and placed new markers on the war table. She drew out a miniature map of her own that she spread out on her desk in her quarters, staying up long into the night moving forces around until she positioned her soldiers in a way she was satisfied, following in the wake of Leliana’s most trusted agents.

She turned to her inner circle, those who remained, and surveyed her plans and maps as she contemplated how best to deploy them. Iron Bull would be with his Chargers, dealing with a particularly difficult encroachment of Red Templars that Leliana’s spies had identified; Vivienne would go with the mages, if Shohreh could convince her and Fiona to set aside their differences and command together. She placed Sera near the closest villages to the Wilds, confident she and the Red Jennys could keep innocents out of the crossfire using whatever means necessary. Cole would go with her, though she made a note to inform the boy that he was free to change his plans however he wished. She trusted him to know best where he might be needed most. Dorian and Solas would come with her. She wanted as much magic on her side as possible when entering the temple, and no doubt Solas’s knowledge would prove invaluable.

This left Cassandra and Varric, and her heart sank when she wrote out both their names, etching Cassandra’s with extra care. She could bring both him and Cassandra with her into the temple, but it would deny the field a fighter, and they needed everyone they could get. The simple truth was she could not think of a specialized use for Varric in the field, and the vanguard needed a general, someone who could rally their troops and charge forward while Cullen directed their forces at large. Cassandra fit the bill, with her clear, carrying voice and Seekers’ shield. Shohreh often wondered why she had not been named commander in Cullen’s stead, though she never dwelt on it, grateful beyond measure she’d been able to keep Cassandra close. 

They had not fought a battle separated since they’d first met. Minor skirmishes, yes, when Shohreh took out other companions while Cassandra served elsewhere or remained occupied training new forces in Skyhold. But every major campaign had seen them side by side, Cassandra’s shield raised while Shohreh pressed forward, Shohreh covering Cassandra when she rushed against a templar or demon. They fought so seamlessly together, without words, without thinking, and even if they had not become lovers Shohreh imagined that Halewell would still have written that infuriating song about the women warriors shining against the sunset.

This would be the first of many separations, she told herself, if Cassandra became Divine. They had not spoken of it since their initial conversation, but the possibility hung between them, palpable and profound. Better for her to start preparing herself for the outcome now. Yet, could they not have one last battle, together against the darkness? Shohreh did not know if she could face Corypheus without Cassandra, the woman who had started as a comrade in arms but had become so much more. If, indeed, he could be defeated while they stood apart. 

She drew in a deep breath and wrote _“vanguard”_ beside the name of her love. Battles were won by pragmatists, Leliana would tell her. And they could not stand together if their enemies tore the world to pieces.

***

They rode together to the Wilds, largely in silence, the weight of what lay ahead pressing in around them. The forest air grew thick with humidity, and colorful birds appeared to escort them, shrieking wildly as heralds for the chaos to come. Cassandra and Shohreh spent their last night together in a tent just a bit farther removed from the main camp, their armor set at one end and a shared bedroll on the other.

They’d never mastered tent sex, both too self-conscious to risk the odds of being overheard or walked in on, but tonight some desperate, primal urge overtook them both. They fucked quietly in the dark, fumbling to remove their clothes until their bodies pressed together slick with sweat, breath heavy against the stifling air of the tent. Cassandra’s teeth dug into her lower lip to keep any noise from escaping her, her head tossed back as Shohreh slipped a hand between her legs, her body trembling until she came silently, panting breaths escaping her as Shohreh drew kisses on her stomach and back up to her lips. Cassandra flipped her onto her back, her hands roaming everywhere, pinching her nipples and tracing down her sides. Shohreh wheedled out soft gasps when Cassandra’s nails dug into her back, raking down til they clawed into her ass. Her hips jerked upward, legs shaking as Cassandra kissed the inside of her thigh and slid her tongue inside her. A small moan escaped her when she finally tipped over the edge, biting down on a fist to keep from crying out further, and Cassandra held her as she came back down to earth, a whispered prayer brushed against her ear, the smell of salt between them.

They lay together in silence afterward, Shohreh’s thoughts straying back to the forthcoming battle. She curled in around herself, her body coiled tighter than a spring, powerless to do anything about it but lie still. All she could hope for was to find herself here again tomorrow, resting on Cassandra’s chest, soothed by the rise and fall of her breath. Cassandra wound a hand around Shohreh, curled against her neck, but gave a low cry of dismay when she discovered how tight her shoulders still were.

“I thought the point of all this was to _release_ tension,” Cassandra grumbled, and she sat Shohreh up so she could tend to her knotted muscles, her deft fingers kneading where her neck met her shoulder. Shohreh groaned a little bit and leaned into her touch, the brief pain worth it for the relief it brought after.

“Do you remember in Haven, when I said I’m always troubled? I carry it here.”

“Maker’s breath. And they said I’m incorrigible. You can’t go into battle like this, you’ll wrench something before your first strike.” Cassandra continued her ministrations along with a lecture, one Shohreh half tuned out as her muscles slowly unknotted. Cassandra had not spent the last few weeks sitting clenched over a desk studying war reports until her eyes blurred and the letters ran together. Besides, it was easy for her not to worry, when she placed her faith in the Maker’s plan.

Eventually Cassandra’s hands withdrew, replaced by the light touch of fingertips that ran lovingly along her back. They traced over the large, mottled burn scar that spread across her right shoulder blade down to her ribcage, courtesy of a rage demon in the Exalted Plains, and Shohreh shivered. Cassandra’s touch shifted to the scar from Adamant on her forearm, then around to shallow cut along her collarbone. “You had none of these before you met me.”

“Not true. This came when I was sixteen.” Shohreh turned her forearm over to reveal at a trio of claw marks. “My first solo hunt. Another one on my knee, deflecting a blade aimed for my face. And a bite scar on my hip, to match the one here.” She turned and lifted her chin, the faint indentation of teeth barely visible now. None of her old wounds had hurt as much as the burn on her back—she had never known such agony, sure she would die before Dorian rushed to her with a healing potion—but somehow the bite marks still brought back the strongest echoes of fear. 

“I was attacked by a mabari as a child, before Ansburg. It’s why they trained me for hunting, initially—I was so terrified of anything four-legged after that, even halla. They felt the only way for me to overcome my fears was to face them head-on.”

“It seemed to work,” Cassandra said dryly. “Considering how many damned mabari I’ve had to stop you from bringing back to Skyhold.”

“They would raise morale,” Shohreh insisted. “Though you have a point about the dracolisks.”

“Indeed.” Cassandra pressed her lips against the top of her shoulder, then on her collarbone and up the side of her neck. “Try not to get any new ones without me.”

“The same goes for you,” Shohreh admonished. “Or broken bones. If you see a pride demon leave it for someone Bull’s size to take care of. I don’t want to hear of you being stepped on again.”

“It left me a perfect opening to stab it in the foot,” Cassandra said solemnly, but her lips twitched, and Shohreh fell into an exhausted sort of laughter. She rested her forehead against Cassandra’s and cradled her face between her hands, her thumb brushing over the scar on her cheek. She shut her eyes against the fear in her heart and lost herself in feeling, in touch, in the love of a woman more valiant than anyone she’d ever known. 

“Come back to me, my heart,” she whispered. “Victory means nothing otherwise.”

***

She could not have predicted how the Temple of Mythal changed her. She’d left so much of the Dalish behind since the Conclave, half unconsciously, half willingly. It was easy to forge herself anew in the Inquisition, shrugging off her past selves: Shohreh the presumed orphan, rescued from starvation; Shohreh the thin-blooded, whose time among humans rendered her so; Shohreh the hunter, walker of the lonely path. Now she was Shohreh the Herald, Shohreh the savior, and she did not need to prove herself “Dalish enough” to anyone: her vallaslin marked her as clearly as the Anchor on her hand. Only among the shemlen could that be so, and the reminder of her past made her approach the temple with trepidation, as if it would reveal all the ways she’d been whittled down to a shadow of her people, one who’d never absorbed their traditions in quite the same way.

Instead the opposite happened. Nothing could have prepared her for the awe that infused her when she stepped inside the temple, the impenetrable sense she had stepped somewhere utterly sacred. Comfort filled her very being, alongside the absolute certainty that she _belonged_ here, that her blood linked her to the people who built this place long ago. She completed the rituals before the gate with a singular instinct, a tribute and greeting to Mythal, and though her vallaslin were to a different god she prayed all the same, spoke the names of Enaya and Deshanna who honored the great goddess.

“ _Melana en athim las enaste_ ,” Solas said to her when they walked through the door, and she nodded to him, startled and gratified.

Then they were met by the Sentinels, Morrigan threw a fit, and everything went downhill from there. Frantic anger enveloped Shohreh as she chased after the bird, practically dragging the Sentinel Guide alongside her as the guide pointed out directions to them. They stopped only to aid other Sentinels who fought the Red Templars on her behalf, and she wished she had the time to study the images and stories in the mosaics they passed. Instead, she rushed outside to where Samson stood waiting for them, and she threw herself at him with her shield. He sent her flying with a single stroke from his maul, her head aching when she hit the ground, but she rushed forward as Dorian and Solas weakened him, striking again and again til she finally broke through his armor and brought him crashing to the ground.

Ahead of them, Abelas sprinted up to the Well of Sorrows, stopping only when Morrigan materialized in front of them. Shohreh ran after them, the air tearing at her lungs, and she skidded to a stop while the Sentinel and witch faced off. Her chest heaved as she tried to catch her breath, adrenaline leeching from her, replaced by fear when she saw Morrigan poised to strike. She rushed forward, placing herself between them, and threw the woman she’d once admired a furious glare. 

“ _Enough!_ ”

She listened to Abelas speak of the Well, of the millennia of knowledge it held. Its name held true as sorrow tugged Shohreh forward, for all that her people had lost, for every moment she’d felt inferior or cast out because of the shemlen who’d separated her from her clan. Still, Abelas surprised her, his eyes seeking her own when he relented.

“You have shown respect to Mythal, and there is a righteousness to you I cannot deny.”

 _Is there?_ She wondered. _Or is it desperation, circumstance? Does it matter?_

“Is that your desire? To partake of the Vir’Abelasan as best you can? To fight your enemy?”

She did not desire it, but her choices narrowed in around her, knowledge that Corypheus still stood outside the temple, ready to send more templars after them at any moment. But she would not desecrate a living relic of her people. Not anymore than she already had. “Only with your permission.”

“One does not obtain permission. One obtains the right.” He turned and walked away, only to stop beside Solas.

“The Vir’Abelasan may be too much for a mortal to comprehend. Brave it if you must, but know you this: you shall be bound forever to the will of Mythal.”

She suddenly wished this place had not crystallized her belief in the gods. Yesterday, she could dismiss such warnings as superstition or mythology, but she could not while this ancient man stood before her, his amber eyes piercing through to her. Worship had never been something she could comprehend, even as a child; she always rejected the idea that she must bow to anyone, even a higher power. To bind herself to a goddess, even one as revered as Mythal…doubt infused her once more.

She approached the well with Morrigan, who stared at it as if transfixed. The water lay still as glass, but it called to Shohreh all the same, an inescapable ache demanding to be soothed. Morrigan murmured to herself, her hand stretched out over the well, before she turned to Shohreh, a manipulative calculation to her eyes she recognized all too well. She presented her case in a rational, measured fashion, her melodic voice carrying no hint of a plea, but Solas stepped in, more angry than Shohreh had ever seen.

“You are a glutton drooling at the sight of feast,” he spat. “You cannot be trusted.”

It was the first time Shohreh had ever agreed with him.

“Of all those present, I alone have the training to make use of this,” Morrigan insisted. “Let me drink, Inquisitor.”

She probably did not even view her words as arrogant, and that stung Shohreh most of all.

“’You alone?’” She kept her voice as even as Morrigan’s. “This is _my_ heritage.”

“I have studied the oldest lore! I have delved into mysteries of which you can only dream.”

“You’ve _studied_ ,” Shohreh echoed in disbelief. The Anchor burned now, flaring sharper when her hands clenched into fists. “Have you lived? Have you known the pain of history lost? Have you felt your clan clench into a fist so tightly their children fell through, because they had no other choice? Because _shemlen_ like you have never cared?”

Her voice rose in pitch, and she heard the telltale step of Dorian’s boots behind her. Solas stared at her, slack-jawed in astonishment, but he did not speak. Morrigan stood before her, unmoved, and if it did not betray her entire purpose Shohreh would have pushed her into the well.

“Can you honestly tell me there is anyone better suited?”

“I would be,” she said, and in that moment she made her decision. No amount of pleading could persuade her, not from Solas, not from Dorian, certainly not from Morrigan. She only wished Cassandra were here, that she could affirm Shohreh’s choice or deny it in such a way that caused her to stand more firmly. She wanted to ask Cassandra if her faith felt like this—the certainty, the comfort that ancient forces watched over her, whether for good or for ill, and all she could do was try to live in a way that honored them.

She reached a hand to touch her face, tracing over the vallaslin, feeling the echo of needles tapped against skin while she contemplated June, the god of craft. She had always been a creator, inventive and curious, but a part of her had died that day at the Conclave. Whether fate or circumstance guided her, she’d transformed into a protector, a guardian for the Inquisition in the same way her Keeper claimed Mythal provided justice for them. She’d had such little agency in her life these past months, the Anchor on her hand dictating her every move, but this, this final choice? This she made by her own will.

She stepped into the pool, the cold, clear water lapping over her feet, and she was glad she wore traditional Dalish leg warps as opposed to the boots she so often donned at Skyhold. Fog lifted to surround her, voices whispering at her ears, and she smiled in wonder. She walked until the water reached her hips, enveloping her in its embrace, and she stood to face her companions, none of whom could fathom what this meant for her. Shohreh the thin-blooded, Shohreh the Dalish, Shohreh the Inquisitor, the supplicant, the lover—all melted off her into the water until she stood simply as herself, a creation of the world as it is meeting the world that was. She cupped her hands in the water, the Anchor pulsing beneath the surface, and lifted them to her lips.

Pain jolted through her entire body, and the world went dark as water shot away from her with the force of a tidal wave. She writhed in the darkness, the whispering voices rising in pitch, asking her questions in Elvhen that she only half understood.

“’Why am I here?’” She made her best guess and addressed the voices. “Corypheus…a magister wishes to rip the Veil open. I must learn how to stop him.”

No answer. The whispers continued, more fog rising up to surround her, and desperation filled her, the image of Cassandra in the vanguard blooming behind her closed eyes. “If you can help me vanquish Corypheus, take whatever price you wish.”

Did she mean that? The cost was always too much, in the great tales of old. Could she lose Cassandra, her friends, could she walk the lonely path until the end of her days? 

“ _Vir Mythal’enaste,”_ and something horrible entered her gut, her abdomen twisting in agony until the pain burst out, a haze of symbols and light.

Then she was back in the temple, Corypheus descended upon them, and she had no time to think before she barked at everyone to run to the eluvian. She waited, the last one to go, and fear seized her lungs, unable to breathe. Something rose out of the water, the shape of a woman amidst a swirling vortex, a barrier between her and the red monstrosity rushing through the temple. She sprinted through the mirror, liquid glass passing over her skin, and when Morrigan led them back to Skyhold she stumbled out of the eluvian, gulping the stuffy air of the room in relief.

 _“Carry us,_ ” voices whispered to her in Elvhen. Solas stood closest to her, any remaining color drained from his face, and she fell into his arms, too exhausted to move.


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Cassandra returns from the Arbor Wilds. Uncomfortable discussions about the future ensue.

The downside of travel by eluvian was that they had to wait days for their companions to return from the field of victory, and Skyhold felt empty and abandoned without them. She played Wicked Grace with Varric to pass the time, both of them determined to speak of anything but the temple, and he eventually forced her to give him an extra copper each time she looked toward the gates. Quietly, she wrote letters to key Chantry clerics, but she did not seal them. Instead, she placed them in a drawer of her desk, where they would sit until Josephine approved and determined the most subtle way of delivering them. She wondered, fleetingly, what her ambassador would think of her choice. 

The voices from the well became a constant chorus in her head, sometimes clarifying into fragmented words or phrases but mostly harmonized in inaudible whispers. Her head swam for the first day, rendering her too disoriented to leave her bed, but eventually it became like the ringing in her ears that plagued her for a month after Haven, an irritating but manageable side effect.

Finally, a week after they’d returned, the signal horn blew and Shohreh ran to the drawbridge to greet Cullen, Leliana, Josephine, and Cassandra riding through the gates. Her advisors each favored her with grim smiles, a fading bruise on Cullen’s cheek, but Shohreh’s own smile of relief faded at the sight of Cassandra, who seemed to be staying upright on her horse through sheer force of will. Her face took on a grey pallor, and she waited for Cullen to hold her arms while she dismounted with great difficulty, staggering against the commander when she hit the ground.

Shohreh ran forward, heart pounding, and embraced Cassandra with care. She favored her left leg, and Shohreh looked down to see a bloodstained bandage on the right, peeking beneath tears in her breeches. “What happened?”

Cassandra winced. “Venatori. Got careless. Took a cut straight to the thigh.”

“She behaved like a child,” Leliana scolded, the irritation clear on her face. “She waited until it was infected to let a mage healer tend it.”

Shohreh let out a string of curse words in Elvhen. Cassandra cocked her head into a bemused smile.

“You know I have no idea what any of that means.”

“Generously, it translates to ‘you’re an idiot,’” said Solas, who’d joined the welcome party and surveyed Cassandra with a critical eye. “In this case I’d have to agree with her. You could have lost the leg. Still could.”

“You’ve kept this one alive so far,” she complained, gesturing at Shohreh, who chose not to dignify the words with a response. Her irritation swiftly morphed into alarm at Cassandra’s short, shallow breaths, and she gave a cry of pain when she tried to put weight on the leg, her knees buckling. Shohreh draped her arm over her shoulder, Solas taking the other side, and together they helped Cassandra limp inside the fortress and up to the Inquisitor’s quarters. Cassandra eased herself onto the bed with a low hiss, her face drawn in, and Shohreh removed her armor with trembling fingers. Cassandra’s eyes fluttered half-closed, a faint smile on her lips as she watched Shohreh, a shaking hand raised to brush against her cheek before it fell to the bed.

“My own lady knight,” she said, her voice weak. “Here to rescue her love. Just like the stories.”

“I can think of better stories to tell.” Shohreh kissed her forehead gently and turned to see that Solas returned with a basin of water and clean bandages. She stepped back so that he could remove the bandage from Cassandra’s leg, her chest growing tight as he unwound the tattered bandage, his healer’s face expressionless. But even he breathed out a curse when he beheld the long, angry gash along Cassandra’s thigh, inflamed skin radiating out from where sutures held the cut closed. Shohreh covered her mouth with one hand to suppress a horrified cry—it had missed the femoral artery by barely an inch, crusted yellow between the sutures—and forced herself to keep still while Solas cleaned the wound.

“Do you have prophet’s laurel?” he asked tersely. “Does the apothecary?”

“I do,” she said, and went for the pouch she’d kept at her belt the day of the Conclave, filled with herbs and an ironbark ring she’d carried with her all the way from the Marches. The familiar smell of her people wound through her when she drew in a steadying breath. She withdrew the ring before she handed the pouch to Solas, twisting it around her finger as he drew a complicated-looking spell above Cassandra, murmuring out to the Fade. 

Nausea rose in Shohreh while she watched, helpless, until Cassandra called her name, her voice pitched in an anguish Shohreh had never heard before. She rushed forward and took Cassandra’s hand in her own, pushing down her own terror as she ran a loving hand over Cassandra’s forehead, her skin hot to the touch.

“It will be over soon.” Shohreh gave her a smile she did not feel. “You’ve given Solas a challenge now, and you know how he enjoys those.” 

Cassandra’s mouth twitched in a weak smile, but then her eyes grew bright with tears. “I should not have left it. I have only—it has been so difficult to trust magic, ever since the Seekers—” 

“I know,” Shohreh leaned forward to give her a careful, tender kiss, her lips paper-thin and chapped from days on the road. “I’m here, _ma vhenan_ , my love. I’ll protect you, always.”

“A protector,” Cassandra murmured. “And to think how long I accepted loneliness in my life. I suppose you don’t realize the pain of it, until it’s lost for a time.”

“We will keep it lost.” Shohreh’s throat grew tight. “No matter where the tides pull us.” 

“I have faith enough in that,” Cassandra said, and fell back against the pillows, eyes fluttering closed. Shohreh remained, watching the steady rise and fall of her chest, unable to look back at Solas’s work until he touched her lightly on the shoulder and beckoned her to the stairwell.

“She will heal,” he said softly, “provided she does not give way to more foolishness. Toxins from the blade had entered her bloodstream, something no ordinary mage could fight. It would have killed her if she had not returned when she did. As it is, I will need to monitor her to ensure the infection remains contained.”

She remained silent, unmoving, the words unraveling in her mind until they lost their meaning. Everything felt light, airy, and she nodded to Solas stiffly, unable to do much more. 

“Can you let them know downstairs? The war council…”

“Is one you should attend,” he said. “There is nothing to do here but wait. I will ensure that she is safe. You have my word.”

She wanted to protest, to never leave Cassandra’s side again, but the whispers in her mind rose in chorus, their wordless song urging her to attend to her duty. She wiped swiftly at her eyes to dispel the few tears that had gathered and nodded to Solas. 

“ _Ma serannas. Ma serannas._ _Ir.._.” she could not put the rest into words. But Solas shook his head, faint sadness behind his eyes. He reached a hand to briefly cup her face but then dropped it, tilting his head toward the door. 

“We surprise each other, lethallan. That much will always be true.”

***

Somehow, she made it through the council with her composure intact, shutting down all worry and narrowing in on the consequences of the Arbor Wilds. She did not think she could have without the Well, which whispered to her and nudged her mind away from the currents of pain. The only time she came near to cracking was when Morrigan derided her inability to make out more than whispers, and she envisioned throttling the apostate to keep her hands still and voice even.

The council adjourned with her purpose clear, the altar of Mythal marked on the map as her next destination, once Cassandra was out of danger. She left her advisors and went back to her quarters, a nameless void howling beneath her heart. Solas sat in silence on the couch when she entered, and he nodded to her once before he left without a word. Cassandra slept, her face still deathly pale but her chest rising and falling in a steady movement. She smelled like horse and eight days on the road, so Shohreh fetched towels and a washbasin from her closet. She filled the basin with water and gently wiped the grime from Cassandra’s skin, dried blood still flaking off where her collar had been. She barely stirred under Shohreh’s touch, the taut muscles of her arms and back so familiar as she ran the damp cloth over her body. Her braid had come half undone, so after Shohreh slipped a clean, oversized tunic over Cassandra’s shoulders she took the oily strands between her fingers. Her hair desperately needed washing, but that would have to wait for when she awoke. Cassandra had never shown her how to arrange the braid in its secure little crown, so Shohreh let it hang down over her shoulder, small and forlorn.

Her work complete, Shohreh stood and gazed down at Cassandra, the pillows on the bed threatening to engulf her. She looked so fragile, heat still radiating from the bandage on her leg, and the reality of the situation came crashing down around Shohreh with such force she staggered backward, doubling over as if in pain. A tight, uncontrolled sob escaped her, and she bit down hard on her fist to keep another from waking Cassandra. She fled down the steps and out the door, keeping it cracked open an inch, and collapsed onto the ground, the stone hard and unforgiving beneath her knees. Great, wracking sobs pulled at her, worse than the day she became Inquisitor, and she hugged her knees as she gave in to weeping, the spectre of Cassandra’s loss drowning her in heartache. A loss she might endure in so many ways, no matter what the future held. 

And that was how Leliana found her in the rubble-strewn hall outside her quarters, shaking uncontrollably against the wall, her eyes swollen and nose blocked from the embarrassing amount of snot she’d produced. Leliana dropped to her knees in front of Shohreh, who let out a mortified groan and covered her face with her hands.

“I came to check on you both,” the soft voice said above her. “It seems I was right to do so.”

Shohreh wiped at her eyes hard enough to bruise and looked up at Leliana. “She will be fine, according to Solas. The rest is just time.”

Leliana’s face went slack with relief. “I am glad to hear it. And you?”

“I’m—I’m fine. A moment of weakness is all.” Dimly, she remembered when Leliana said the same to her in Haven, when her only “weakness” had been to call the Maker cruel, and her face flamed. “I’m sorry you have to see me like this.”

“Inquisitor,” Leliana said with an arched eyebrow. “Do not make me throw your own words back at you.”

“‘Do as I say and not as I do,’” she murmured. “Wisdom from my father.”

Leliana’s musical laugh filled the hall, and she took a seat on the floor beside Shohreh, resting her elbows on her knees in a way entirely divorced from the seneschal Shohreh knew. They sat quietly together, the crows that had snuck down the gaps in the roof cawing incessantly, and Shohreh let out a deep, shuddering sigh.

“Cassandra found me like this once, in the early days. Back before we’d formed any sort of bond. It was the first day I’d killed a man, and I broke down like a child.” She snorted at the memory. “She couldn’t believe I’d made it thirty years without spilling human blood.”

Leliana raised her eyebrows in surprise. “Neither can I, honestly. You were fortunate.”

“I was. The gods saved all my bad fortune for this year.”

Leliana chuckled again, then reached out to give Shohreh’s arm an uncharacteristic squeeze. “I think it is good. You have shown such care for life, even for those who did not deserve it. You have helped me realize I cannot let ruthlessness rule my heart. I will be grateful for that, forever.”

Her words warmed Shohreh, until she thought of Cassandra’s own ruthlessness and began to tremble again. “I have said a prayer for every soul we’ve lost. But somehow, I never considered one of those could be her. We’ve faced so much death, doled it out ourselves, but her strength...I’d be lost without it.” 

“You would endure,” Leliana said softly. Shohreh looked at her kind, sad eyes, and wondered who she’d lost. “It is the kind of grief that alters you, but you would endure. And you do not have to yet. Maker willing, not ever.”

Shohreh nodded and wiped the last of the tears from her eyes. She rested her head against the cool stone wall, the last bits of sunlight streaming through the ceiling cracks, and tried to remember how it felt to hope.

“All right, you can’t stay here all night,” Leliana said. She stood and pulled Shohreh to her feet. “We will find a healer to watch over her, and then I want you to come with me to the vaults. Fetch Varric and Dorian. I’m long overdue for a game of Wicked Grace.”

“You’ve never played cards with us before.”

“Because I know better than to play against Josephine.” Leliana graced her with a wicked smile. “And she will have her hands full with correspondence tonight. You, on the other hand, need lessons from a proper bard.”

“I await your teachings, then,” Shohreh said, and beckoned to the door with a grand flourish. Leliana shook her head and walked past her, the door creaking on its hinges. Shohreh started to follow, but she stopped at the threshold, remembering the unsealed letters in her desk.

“Actually, will you come with me to the rookery, before we begin? I need to ask you something.”

***

Cassandra awoke early the next day, alert and restless, and Shohreh went downstairs to fetch breakfast for them both after making her promise she would not strain herself. She returned, of course, to find Cassandra had pulled her desk chair out onto the balcony, sitting with a blanket over her lap as she gazed out at the mountains. Shohreh brought out another chair to join her, staring in worry at her blanketed leg until Cassandra took her hand and kissed it gently.

“Thank you for taking care of me,” she said. “I hope I did not worry you too terribly.”

“I would worry less if you remained in bed,” Shohreh replied with a mock-stern look. “Solas prescribed rest.” 

Cassandra gestured down to where she sat, blanket tucked in around her and settled deep into the armchair. “I will not move from this spot, I promise. I simply needed the wind on my face. Besides, it is much better today.”

“If you say so,” Shohreh said dubiously.

“I do say so,” Cassandra said, one eyebrow arched in a way that rendered her the picture of Nevarran nobility. She kept her stern eyes trained on Shohreh, and her heart sank, knowing what was to come. 

“So. Are you going to tell me why you drank from the Well of Sorrows and bound yourself to an Elven goddess?”

Shohreh sighed and grasped her forehead with one hand. “I had to, Cassandra. Corypheus would have destroyed us all, or Abelas would have destroyed the Well. Thousands of years of history, of witnessing, snuffed out in an instant. And Morrigan…” She scowled and shook her head. “I couldn’t leave it to Morrigan.”

“No, indeed.” Cassandra still looked troubled. “But you do not understand what is within you. None of us do. The danger you’ve placed yourself in, the actions you may be compelled to take for the sake of this Mythal, if she still holds power--”

“She does,” Shohreh said, her voice quiet and fierce. “Oh, Cassandra, I wish you’d been at the temple with me. For the first time in my life, I understood faith. I understood what guides you. Mythal is out there, and she guides me. It is in concert with my duty.”

“Your duty is to your people,” Cassandra insisted. “To the Inquisition. Not some long-dead goddess...”

Anger and hurt stabbed at Shohreh. “Don’t. Don’t you dare. Have I ever once challenged your belief in the Maker? Ever once refuted his existence?”

“No. I did not mean she does not exist, Shohreh, I did not intend—" Cassandra stumbled over the words, her cheeks flushed from remorse, but the damage was done.

“I’m sorry,” Cassandra said at last. “That was unworthy of me to say. I only…I do not want to lose you again. Not after all we have been through.” 

“We may lose each other anyway. I may die fighting Corypheus, or the Chantry will name you Divine.”

Cassandra looked as if she’d been clubbed over the head. She blinked rapidly, then her expression softened into sadness.

“But you would not name me Divine. Not if the clerics asked you.” 

Shohreh’s chest seized up in fear. “I haven’t been asked. Not officially. Perhaps they’ve realized my conflict of interest.”

She shot a crooked smile at Cassandra in an attempt to soften the tension and was rewarded with a dry snort. “I do not think they have noticed. Besides, those who know you will trust you to be impartial. Regardless—” Cassandra’s voice caught briefly—“regardless of your personal feelings.”

She looked up at Shohreh, her grey eyes flinty. “I trust you to tell me the same.”

She felt sick with heartache, not wishing to wound her love in the way she’d been wounded, but she could not falter under Cassandra’s gaze.

“I...I have tried to only consider the future, and the changes it will bring. Change to the Chantry. Change for the mages. And I think of you, and Leliana. The two women who held my life in their hands, that day in Haven, and gave me a chance. No matter who the clerics choose, the Sunburst Throne will shine brighter than an age. But I think…I think Leliana would enjoy the job quite a bit more.”

Cassandra’s mouth quirked slightly, but otherwise kept her face impassive. “And Leliana would end the Circles?”

“Leliana would end the Circles,” Shohreh echoed, her breath leaving her in a great sigh. Cassandra nodded and stared out at the mountains, her lips pursed together. Shohreh began to tremble, the price of her actions carried between them on the wind. Her duty arcing away from her heart. But Cassandra took her hand, knitting their fingers together, one last link that would not break just yet.

“You know what I believe. We need the Circles if we are to hope for stability. But I also believe you and I wish the same things. Leliana wishes the same things. And if we approach them in different ways…” Cassandra trailed off, before she kissed their intertwined hands. “I must remember that our gods guide us in ways we do not expect. And that faith is trust.”

“It is,” Shohreh said, her voice shaking. She wondered if Cassandra had ever once considered the Evanuris before now. If, with Shohreh’s ambivalence gone, she would learn of the Creators the way Shohreh had absorbed herself in Chantry scripture these past months, to play the Great Game but also to know her love.

“ _Mythal’enaste_.” She murmured the word so quietly she could not be sure Cassandra heard her. “The favor of Mythal. ‘ _Save us from the darkness, as you did before, and we will sing your name to the heaven._ ’ I will sing to the Breach itself if it means victory against Corypheus, and justice for all we have lost. Can you trust me in this? To enact her will, to defeat Corypheus?”

Cassandra stared at her for a long time, Shohreh not daring to breathe, until at last she nodded, her mouth thinned in resolve. “I can. And I will heal in time to stand with you on the battlefield. You will end this creature. And I will be glad to face a new day.”


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The final battle, and beyond.

The history of the Elvhen cascaded down the centuries until it settled into in a palace of lies, if Abelas was to be believed. Not differing interpretations or conflicting lore but flat-out lies, the truth twisted and wrung until it disappeared entirely. It had shattered Shohreh’s perception of the world, disquiet flowing through her when she wondered how her own legacy would be torn down and rebuilt. Now, she could only pray that lies would come, and no one but Cassandra, Varric, and Dorian would ever know she yelled “EAT SHIT AND DIE” before plunging her sword between the bones of Corypheus. 

He did not die then, of course, held together by the stench and sinew of a thousand years, and she thrust at him again, Cassandra attacking his flank beside her. He moved with the impossible speed of her worst foes, rematerializing on the other side of the clearing to ignite the air around them. She and Cassandra rolled away in unison to avoid the crackling red lightning, but Varric got caught in the blast, and Shohreh rushed to him to hoist him to his feet, healing potion in hand. Somehow, Dorian manipulated a spell that kept Corypheus frozen in place, and Shohreh grabbed a jar of bees from her belt as she ran, flinging it at the would-be god for good measure. Dorian shifted to cast a barrier as she stepped between the buzzing little terrors, stabbing at Corypheus again and again, a couple of pinching stings on her forearms a small price to pay for the way he writhed and howled.

At last he stepped back, the horrid orb glowing above him, and the guardians of Mythal whispered to Shohreh what she must do. The Anchor tore apart her hand as it crackled and grew, flesh tearing off her bones, and she called the orb to her, the Fade opened to her as it had at Adamant, only this time she controlled herself and those around her. “Enjoy the Fade, fucker!” were the final words he heard, agony and exhaustion fueling Shohreh’s irreverent tempest of rage.

Then she fell to her knees, her strength utterly drained, and she barely kept herself from lying prone on the rock. Cassandra ran to her, wrapping her in an embrace, her lips warm against the base of Shohreh’s ear. “Look up,” she whispered, and Shohreh lifted her head to see a healing sky, only a pale blue scar where the Breach had been.

“ _Mythal’enaste,”_ She breathed, and then collapsed against Cassandra.

She made it down the mountain on her own two feet, her sword held loosely in her right hand, bathed in the light of her companions’ relieved shouts and embraces. Everything else ran together rather loosely in her memory—her parting words to Solas, returning to Skyhold, standing to receive the cheers and adoration of her people, her relief the only thing that saw her through it. Afterward, she hid in Solas’s vacated quarters, wrapping a bandage dipped in elfroot around her left hand, green light still shining through the cloth. But the tearing pain eased, and she slid a leather glove over it to hide the worst of the mark. Her right hand she kept bare, adorned only with her ironbark ring and the one from Vivienne, and stepped back into the hall to face her people.

Leliana’s report on Solas’s whereabouts, or lack thereof, hit her much harder than she expected, but she told her spymaster not to pursue the matter and focused instead on the party Josephine put together with unthinkable speed. She was ravenously hungry, and stuffed herself with more food than she had at any meal the past couple months, laughing each time Sera pilfered more for her from Cullen’s plate.

“Glad for this,” Sera said. “You’ve been nibbling like a bird since we got back from the Temple. Not healthy, the way you move.”

“Working on it,” Shohreh said, surveying the platter before her before taking another half-dozen crabcakes imported from Val Royeaux, passing three to Cassandra and keeping the rest for herself. Krem stared at her in disbelief.

“You’re so…tiny. Where does it all _go_?”

“Stabbing people,” Shohreh answered with a shrug.

A strange melancholy filled her as the evening went on, gazing out at these people who had become her colleagues, her friends, through nothing more than a chance of fate. It was unlikely they’d all be together in the same room again, but though part of her longed to address them in a sappy, heartfelt speech she knew it would only end in embarrassment for herself. Instead she talked quietly with the members of her inner circle, thanking them one by one, an extra hug for Dorian when he told her that he’d stay. She would find a way to keep them all in her lives, no matter where the world took them.

She stayed up far later than she wished and finally made her farewells, moving toward the door to her quarters with longing.

“Are you leaving?” Shohreh turned to see Cassandra approach her with some eagerness. “Thank the Maker. If you can, I can.”

Shohreh laughed and took her hand. “Someday, we will attend a party you enjoy.”

“I did enjoy this. For the first hour,” Cassandra said, and they walked together up to her quarters, the door closed before anyone could miss them. 

The sun had come up some time in the past hour, and Shohreh blinked at the dawn light in her quarters, the balcony doors still thrown open from the day before. She wandered across the room, trailing her fingers over the carved wooden bedframe, and closed her eyes, relishing in the warmth of the sun on her face. She opened her eyes to see Cassandra staring at her, the same sadness in her eyes the day they’d spoken of the Divine, and her earlier melancholy crept back in around her.

“What is it?” 

Cassandra faced her, her beautiful features drawn into vulnerability, and then she turned to walk out onto the balcony. Shohreh followed, her heart fluttering a bit in trepidation, and together they faced east, the sun barely creeping up from behind the mountains.

“Everything is about to change,” Cassandra said. “You will be drawn in a hundred different directions in the weeks and months to come.”

Shohreh glanced at her in worry. “Cassandra…” 

“No, it’s fine. I simply wanted to steal a moment. While I still can.”

Shohreh slid her arm around Cassandra’s waist and rested her head on her shoulder, and they watched the sunrise together until the light became too bright to face. They shifted to the northern balcony, where the exhausted partygoers staggered back to their quarters below them, and Cassandra lifted her hand to behold the rings.

“Where did you get these?”

“A gift from Vivienne. This one, at least." Shohreh indicated the jeweled band on her ring finger before she twisted the ironbark ring around with her thumb. "I made this one, long ago. A tradition our warleader started. Anytime a weapon broke, he had us reforge a fragment into a ring or pendant. Said such a well-used tool should live on with some beauty. This one was my first sword. See the carvings?” She held it out for Cassandra to inspect. “Cedar boughs. For life renewed.” 

“It’s beautiful,” Cassandra said. “You did not wear it before?”

“I feared losing it. I kept it on my belt until the day you came back from the Wilds.”

“Oh.” Cassandra had no words beyond that, and they lapsed back into silence.

“I feared losing you too. More than anything. I put the ring on because I had nowhere left for it, but…I kept it on for what it means to me. What it reminds me of. I can’t keep something tucked away out of fear.”

Cassandra nodded. “Something we both understand. Far better than most.”

Shohreh looked down at the ring, her last link to her people, and ran her thumb over the worn metal. The idea came to her from nowhere, but once it planted in her mind, she knew with certainty that it was right.

“I’d like you to have it.” 

Cassandra jerked her head up to stare at her, her mouth open in surprise. “It is yours. Your people’s, your dedication to the blade…”

“It is all that I am. And I am yours,” Shohreh said softly. “Things will change, and it frightens me. You will have your own duties and callings, and I must shepherd the Inquisition to whatever comes next. But no matter where you go, how far apart we stray...I want you to remember you are my whole heart.”

She slid Cassandra’s glove off her hand, her knuckled bruised and battered, and gently slid the ring off her finger and onto Cassandra’s. Cassandra covered her mouth with her other hand, her eyes filling with tears, and she embraced Shohreh tightly.

“I love you,” she murmured. “No matter where life takes us. Believe that of me, please.”

“Well, I don’t think you’re physically capable of lying,” Shohreh said, and Cassandra shoved her away, smacking her playfully as she did so. They both dissolved into laughter, Cassandra’s a high, clear sound that Shohreh cherished for its rarity. Cassandra took her face between her hands and kissed her, the taste of strawberries sweet on Shohreh’s tongue, and fears for the future fell away if only briefly, victorious in this moment. For just one day, the world shrank to the two of them, their love shining brighter than any battlefield. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for sticking with this to the end!! I have two more stories planned for this series: a pre-Trespasser tale involving Clan Lavellan in Wycome and then likely a final coda once I finish playing Trespasser so STAY TUNED FOR THAT.


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